By A Sea Divided
by Shakespira
Summary: When Anders fled across the Waking Sea he left behind a woman with a broken heart and a friend bent on revenge. Would things ever be set right? F!Caron/Nathaniel; Carver,F!Hawke/Fenris, Anders and more. DA2 spoilers.
1. Prologue

**A/N:**_This story is about four people who are trying to live with the consequences of Anders and Justice merging; Anya Caron, Nathaniel Howe, Margaret Hawke and Anders. It will be very dark at times and will be from various points of view.  
>The Dragon Age timelines have never completely meshed and nowhere is that more apparent than DA2. So if my timeline seems off, it's because I'm trying to use one that makes sense.<br>_

**By A Sea Divided**

**Prologue**

**Vigil's Keep – Two months after the death of the Architect**

"Do not do this, Anders. You have no idea what merging with Justice will do to either of you," she pleaded.

"He'll die if I don't, Annie."

"Oh Anders, he is a spirit not a human and the human he does inhabit is already dead," she reminded him sadly. Her friend, Kristoff, was dead and his deteriorating body was now home to a Fade spirit. It was a horrible joke played on them all and she should never have allowed it to continue. There wasn't a day that went by that she didn't regret her moment of weakness.

"So what do we do, let him just die because of a single cruel act by a demon? Someone has to help him. Why not me?"

"Why not? Because you don't have any idea how he will react to real emotions. All he felt from Kristoff were memories, vague impression. Fingerprints, he called them. How will he deal with raw emotion?"

"I'll teach him how to deal with them, Annie. I'll work with him once we've merged." Anders grinned at her, earnest and boyish.

Anya Caron moved away from Anders and walked quickly to the door. Turning to face him, she spoke again. "Then you leave me no choice, Anders. As your commanding officer I am ordering you not to become a host for Justice. Do I make myself clear?"

"Ooh, look at you, all bossy and everything. You know I love it when you get all Commander Anya on me," Anders teased. He spread his arms wide, an invitation in his eyes.

She bit her cheek to keep from smiling. "I mean it, Anders," she said, serious.

He waggled his brows. She lowered her head, the anger and fear drifting away like so much smoke caught in a breeze.

"Yes, Commander," he replied meekly, spoiling it with a wink.

"Don't wink at me and don't think for a moment that my order is rescinded," she reprimanded before stepping into his arms.

He folded her close, his lips already searching for hers. Maker she loved him. He was so much more than the front he showed the world. To most he was just a charmer, a practical joker, a lady's man, a superficial person with little more on his mind than freedom, women and ale. But he was caring, passionate, brooding at times. He could be serious and compassionate and there were secrets he kept even from her, the woman he said he loved.

It wasn't that she didn't believe Anders when he claimed to love her but some instinct in her warned her that their ideas of love were very different. She had tried to hold onto her heart and the first few months of her tenure had been a dance between the two. He would move closer and she would step away. He was always there, constantly trying to help ease her burdens, calm her fears and somehow her carefully choreographed steps had led her right into his arms. And here she was, yet again, in his arms, shutting out her thoughts to concentrate on him.

In the morning, Anders was gone. In his place, resting on the pillow that still wore his scent, was a note.

_Annie,_

_If you love me as you say you do then you'll understand why I have to do this. Justice had no choice in what happened to him. If I can help him then I must do it. To watch his spirit die, especially after all he has done for us, is wrong and you know it._

_I promise you, my love, everything will be alright._

_Anders_

Anya flew out of bed and scrambled into her discarded clothes. Opening the door, still hopping on one foot as she struggled into her clothes, she was already calling for her Second.

"Nathaniel, we must find Anders and Justice immediately," she told the man as he appeared before her, seemingly from the shadows.

He was dressed, his hair neat and braided, his grey eyes calm and reassuring. Thank the Maker for that; she was anything but calm.

"Then he decided to host Justice?"

There was a tightness squeezing her chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe. "Yes."

By the time they found him it was too late to stop the merging. Kristoff was a crumpled, empty shell on the grass beside Anders, who was leaning against a tree, smiling at them as they approached.

"How could you both?" she demanded and her anger made her voice tremble. Her hands were curled into fists, resting on her hips.

"Calm yourself, Commander Anya. Everything is well, just as we promised."

The words were not Anders. Justice had made his presence known. Damn them both for disobeying her, for deciding on the reckless course of action that might destroy the man she loved and the spirit she had called friend.

"Nathaniel, confine Anders to his old quarters," she ordered her Second.

"Commander?" Nathaniel asked in surprise.

"Just do it."

"Oh, come on, Annie. Don't be angry," Anders cajoled. That was Anders speaking. Her anxiety increased tenfold. How would she ever know who was really in control, whose thoughts were being voiced? When she was being played? Her heart was breaking at what she felt she had to do.

"And have Maddie move his things back into his old room, as well."

"You are angry, Commander Anya. It is understandable, but allow us time to adjust and your concerns will be assuaged." Justice. The changing tones and cadence were making her faintly dizzy.

"I need to find Aura and let her know she can finally have Kristoff's funeral pyre," she said, ignoring the words he offered in comfort.

In the silence as she walked away, she thought she heard the sound of her heart shattering like a crystal goblet against a hearth. She could feel each shard pierce her soul.

"Anders, Rolan is accompanying us and there will be no more arguments. Now tell Oghren and Velanna to be ready in ten minutes."

Two weeks had passed since the merging and Anders seemed to have control over Justice but he admitted there were times when Justice simply took control of him, always with an apology. Anya knew she could no longer trust Ander and that traveling with their resident Warden templar was the only sensible thing to do. As much as she personally disliked the idea, she understood the necessity. Should Anders lose complete control, a templar was their best line of defense.

Word had spread throughout the Vigil that Justice was now living inside Anders and there were some who whispered that he was, for all practical purposes, an abomination. It hurt her to hear the whispered rumors and she did her best to quash them but there was more truth in the words than she liked to admit. Even Nathaniel, who had been best friends with Anders, no longer felt comfortable in his presence. She worried about the growing isolation Anders must be feeling but there was nothing, as the commander, that she could do about it. There were greater concerns, including sudden incursions of darkspawn in the north.

The darkspawn raiding party was easily dealt with. Both Velanna and Anders were powerful mages and Oghren was the fiercest warrior she had ever fought beside. Rolan was particularly good at smiting emissaries and protecting the mages. They were just burning the bodies when a group of templars rode up, their armor glinting with blinding intensity in the noonday sun, even through the haze from the burning darkspawn.

"Well met, travelers," Anya said, shading her eyes.

"We have business with one of your Wardens," a young man claimed, dismounting.

"Then you have business with me. I am Anya Caron, Commander of the Grey of Ferelden," she replied with quiet dignity.

"I am Knight Lieutenant Harmon. We have been informed that Warden Anders is, in fact, now an abomination as he houses a demon."

Anya felt a fleeting stab of panic before she straightened her shoulders and gave the man her haughtiest stare. "We have no abominations in our ranks, Knight Lieutenant Harmon, and these Wardens are under my jurisdiction, not the Chantry's."

"Here he is," Rolan interrupted, a smirk twisting his features. He pointed at Anders. Anya's hand came to rest on her daggers.

Her world exploded then. One minute Anders was standing there looking angry and afraid and the next he became a glowing blue creature of death and destruction. In one sweep of his hand, two of the templars began to burn from the inside out, writhing and twisting in agony as their screams echoed and reverberated off the surrounding hillsides.

"Anders, stand down!" she shouted above the screams.

"They will feel justice! They will burn for what they have done to mages!" Anders roared in a voice that was neither his nor Justice's voice. Her fear shot through her like a well aimed dagger.

"Stop this instant, Anders!" she yelled, reaching out a hand. He flung her back with the flick of a wrist, as if she weighed nothing. She went flying through the air and landed against a downed tree, her shoulder blooming with sudden pain; dizzy and dazed.

"Hey now, Sparklefingers, you can't…" Oghren began but trailed off as he too was tossed aside. Anya watched in horror as he landed near her. She shuddered as she heard the bones in his neck snap. His eyes stared at her, lifeless.

Velanna didn't have a chance to do more than try to protect herself in a thick wall of roots but it did no good. His spell wrapped around the roots and squeezed them. Velanna's scream rose above the others as she was slowly crushed by her own spell.

Smoke from burning bodies and nearby trees began to choke her. If she didn't move soon she would be dead and a new fear swept into her blood. If she didn't stop him, more than the Wardens and templars would be dead. He was capable of killing on a massive scale.

Pushing herself up, Anya growled in pain and fury. "Anders! Justice! Stop!"

He turned to her then and for the beat of a heart, she saw Anders, saw the stark terror in his eyes. "Anders, I love you. Don't do this," she pleaded, trying to reach him through the demon.

"I will feast on the flesh of the vanquished! They will know the wrath of justice!"

"This isn't justice, Anders. This is murder."

"The righteous have nothing to fear, mortal."

"What did Oghren do that was unjust? What injustice was Velanna guilty of?"

The man she had once loved turned from her and she watched in horror as the last templar fell to the ground, his body still smoldering.

Anya felt tears gather and begin to drip down her face. Whatever Anders had once been, whatever Justice had once been, they were no longer. The demon that stood before her wore Anders' body but he was not Anders. With that thought came the knowledge that there was only one course of action left open to her. She would have to kill him. Anya reached down and grabbed up a discarded sword. Digging in her heels, she launched herself at the demon.

The monster before her, shimmering blue in the smoky haze, was much too quick for her and he grabbed her by her hair, pulling her off her feet. As hard as she tried to stifle it, a scream was torn from her throat. He shook her before tossing her aside and she screamed again as a patch of scalp and hair was torn from her head. It was the last thing she remembered.

Nathaniel was silent as he rode. Sigrun had stayed behind at the Vigil in case Anya and her party returned by another route. He had gathered several Wardens and ridden out. Anya was long overdue and his thoughts were dark. He should not have allowed her to go off with Anders. He should have led the group, he was her Second. But Anya would not hear of it.

Anya. Only in his thoughts did he allow himself to call her that. Whenever he spoke to her, he always remained formal, professional. It was the only way he could keep his feelings in check. He loved her. Maker, he loved her and it was all he could do, some days, to keep from shouting it out loud. Of course he wouldn't ever do that. He refused to allow himself to even think such thoughts most days. Besides, his feelings didn't matter. As long she loved Anders he would not even hint at how he felt. When he had seen Anders and Anya falling in love, he had been happy for both of them, envious. He was still so busy being bitter about his family's lot, his father's treachery, that he hadn't realized until it was far too late, just how much he had come to love his Orlesian commander. With a scowl, he pushed his thoughts away. There was no sense going down that path, he would not dishonor her or his best friend by confessing his love.

It was nearly a full day before Nathaniel and his party found the site of the massacre. He slowly dismounted and motioned for the two men traveling with him to stay back. His bile rose and his stomach lurched. There was nothing more nauseating then the smell of burnt flesh and blood. Andraste's grace, what had caused such carnage? His heart stuttered and nearly stopped.

"Anya! Commander Anya!" he called out, his voice hoarse with a sudden dread.

In all his time fighting darkspawn, he had never seen the amount of damage inflicted on a man as he saw now. Bone and flesh separated and strewn around the field, mingling with ash and the skeletal remains of trees, burnt almost white by the heat of a fire.

He found what was left of Oghren first. Bright red hair that had been dulled by the dried blood in it and he was missing an eye, a leg. Nathaniel emptied the contents of his stomach behind a bush, too dazed to care if the men with him viewed it as a weakness.

"Find the commander!" he shouted and began to frantically search through the torn and broken bodies. He was gagging from the stench, the sight. Maker, what had happened? Were those teeth marks in Velanna's arm? His stomach roiled, his heart skittered in his chest. He would not allow himself to believe Anya was dead as well. She was smart and strong and clever enough to survive any attack. He believed in her ability to survive. He had to. It was all he had left to believe in.

He stood up on unsteady legs and moved to another clump of bodies. Ruthlessly tossing aside what had once been a friend, he finally spotted her. She was slightly apart from the others, lying face down, a leg twisted at an odd angle. He scrambled over to her and knelt beside her.

"Anya? Anya I'm here," he whispered, forcing himself to touch her, terrified it was too late, that _he_ was too late. Maker, he _was_ too late to have protected her and what in the name of the Andraste had done this to her? His eyes smarted with tears from the smoke, from the overwhelming sense of guilt that slammed into him.

A moan. A barely audible sound and it was all he needed for his heart to start beating again. "Don't move, Commander. I think your leg is broken."

Her scalp was missing a chunk of skin and hair; oozing blood. In addition to her leg being broken, it appeared her left arm was as well. The surprising thing was that she was alive at all, given the state of the other bodies. Someone, some _thing_, had been in a blind rage to have torn the others apart.

A sudden rush of adrenaline pumped into his veins. "Anders?" he asked the others, who were standing around in a semi-circle, shocked and immobile.

"Not here," Robson, a young recruit answered bitterly.

No. Not Anders. Anders couldn't hurt a fly. He hated to see anyone in pain. He wasn't capable of this kind of destruction. Nathaniel shook his head. "Look again," he ordered coldly.

"Nathaniel," his commander, his Anya, whispered. She had turned her face to look at him, her eyes rimmed with dirt and blood.

"Shhh, don't try and talk, Commander," he soothed, allowing himself to touch her cheek.

"You have to stop him," she told him in a reedy voice.

"Who? Who did this?" Nathaniel demanded but the truth was already there, waiting to confront him.

"Anders."

He sank back on his heels, shaking his head. Anders loved her. He could never hurt her. He wouldn't. On the heels of his denial came a rage, burning through the blinding fog of shock. He would find Anders and kill him for what he'd done. Even if it meant breaking Anya's heart.

He set her leg and her arm, splinted them with what little wood they could find that wasn't charred. Her screams echoed eerily in the air, each scream a dagger to his heart, fueling his vengeance. But somehow, through it all, he remained calm and reassuring, his eight years of training in the Free Marches coming to bear. He would not add to her grief by letting his rage surface.

"You men help me move her over to that copse by the creek and then ride back to the Vigil and fetch a healer and a wagon. Tell Varel to have a room prepared for her on the ground floor and tell Sigrun what's happened. Don't tell anyone else."

She whimpered and cried out as they moved her but she didn't awaken. Nathaniel watched the men ride off and then went and settled beside her, stroking her cheek and waiting.

He was a patient man.

Anders woke up drenched in blood, to find himself staring at the night sky. He had no idea where he was or how he had arrived there. It didn't take any time to ascertain that the blood was not his and that filled him with a foreboding that nearly choked him.

_Ah, you are awake. We need to leave here. I am not afraid of their wrath but you will need to be._

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Anders asked, rubbing his head in confusion.

_I am what you created. Justice, Vengeance, they are the same. One is just swifter than the other, Anders._

"No! No, no, no," Anders moaned as he was shown a mental image of the carnage. Maker, he hadn't killed Anya? Oghren? Velanna?

"That's not justice. Justice is tempered by mercy," Anders whispered, heartsick.

_The one you call Anya lives. I did not kill her even when she tried to kill me. I will not be so forgiving again._

"You will not lay a hand on her!" Anders cried fiercely. "You will not!"

_She did not show you mercy when she came at you with a sword, Anders. I will reply in kind the next time I see her._

"I love her, Justice. You know what love is. The feeling that Kristoff had for Aura, you spoke of it. That was love. Remember," Anders pleaded.

_Sleep, Anders. You are overwrought._

Hours turned into a day and then another before he had the energy to strip and bathe in a small pond, shivering as the cool night air blew against his bare skin. He tried to clean the blood off his robes but it was impossible, a bitter reminder of what his anger had done. What he had done. He wept, alone in the dark, sitting on a rock by a pond in a place he didn't know.

Somehow he would make amends. Somehow. And he had to get word to Anya that he was alive. He knew the instant the thought came to him that he could not risk contacting her. The spirit within him that had once been friend, would strike her down. He had promised Anders and Anders had no reason not to believe him.

He sighed, knowing he would have to leave behind the people he had come to care so deeply for; Anya, Nathaniel, Varel, Sigrun. He wept for them, grieving for the loss of Oghren and Velanna, weeping for the loss of himself. Curling up in the reedy grass, he fell asleep.

In the morning, he rose and began to head north, towards the coast. His clothes were marginally cleaner and he supposed he could steal some off a clothesline if he passed near one. He checked his kit. Thirty seven sovereigns winked at him in the morning light. That would have to do. He'd go as far as he could on it and hope it was far enough.

It took him as far as Kirkwall.


	2. The First Step is the Hardest

**A/N**: _First of all, I want to thank the wonderfully talented author, **l**__**isakodysam,**__ for encouraging me when I first thought about starting this story. I asked for her opinion about the plot and she was very supportive. Her enthusiasm for the story really gave me the push I needed to write it.  
>I also want to thank all those who have reviewed, alerted, fav'ed and those who are lurking. The response has been far greater than I imagined and I'm honored by that.<em>

**Chapter One **

**The First Step is the Hardest**

It was a week before the healer, Sarhal, declared that Anya would live. It was another three days before Anya finally opened her eyes for the first time. Nathaniel's relief uncurled the coiled muscles in his stomach and neck. In that time, he hadn't left her bedside for more than a few hours each day. He would read the scouting reports, shave, bathe and eat. He wrote two letters during that time, both encoded using Grey Warden encryption. One was to King Alistair and the other to the First Warden, explaining what had happened. He kept some of the more grisly details out of both letters.

As he kept his bedside vigil, he waited for news on Anders. He had sent Sigrun and a small group of trusted soldiers out in search of the mage. If anyone could find him, Sigrun could. She worshipped the commander and had been furious when Anders had disobeyed Anya's orders. As Nathaniel relayed the events of the massacre Sigrun's outrage had been tempered with cold resolve.

"Kill him on sight." He would prefer to do the job himself but he would settle for Anders' death at Sigrun's hand. She nodded without hesitation.

Some nights he sat in Anya's darkened room and planned his revenge. He would find Anders and kill him, brother or no, friend or no. Other nights he simply sat, unable to do more than hang on to hope with both hands. She cried out in her sleep frequently and when she did, he would smooth her hair back from her damp brow and whisper to her that she was safe. There were some nights when he even believed it.

One night she opened her eyes and asked, "Anders?"

He knew she was confused, that she thought it was Anders tending her. Nathaniel hated himself for not being able to lie. All she wanted was a bit of comfort and he couldn't bring himself to give it to her, to pretend even for a moment that he was the monster who had nearly killed her.

"No, it's Nathaniel," he replied in a flat, weary voice.

She nodded once and sighed before falling asleep again. He wasn't sure what to make of that but he found himself dozing off as well, the tension in his body easing. In the morning he woke to find her eyes on him.

"You don't need to stay here. He won't be coming back to finish the job, Nathaniel."

She always used his full name in her soft Orlesian drawl, the word gently slurred as if she had caressed each syllable before releasing it. He couldn't imagine her calling him anything else.

"I'll leave if it pleases you, Commander."

"No, don't leave, Nathaniel."

She struggled to sit up but he put a firm hand on her shoulder, holding her in place. "You still have bones knitting, Commander. Sarhal said you aren't to move just yet."

"I need to send a report to King Alistair and the First Warden. They need to be informed of the danger Anders presents," she said but her voice held little conviction. She closed her eyes, sighing.

There was heartbreak in that sigh. _Damn you, Anders. Damn you to the Void._ _I will kill you for what you've done to her_. Nathaniel's anger stirred and awoke but he forced himself to breathe deeply, stilling the fury in his blood. When he was sure he had his anger under control, he spoke quietly, calmly.

"It is done, Commander. I sent encrypted messages to both King Alistair and First Warden Magnus eight days ago."

Tears were leaking from beneath her closed lids. "Thank you," she whispered and fell asleep again. Allowing himself a moment to give her comfort, to give himself comfort, he reached down and gently wiped the tears away with the pads of his calloused thumbs. He sat back and carefully settled his mask back into place, waiting patiently for her to wake up again.

Sigrun returned late one afternoon. It was the same day that Anya sat up and ate her first meal in nearly two weeks; tea, toast points and a coddled egg. Sarhal had explained to the commander that since she had not eaten for so many days she should avoid the heavier foods for the first day or two. Anya had nodded in understanding and quietly eaten. By the time she had finished, she was exhausted and had drifted off with the tray still settled on her lap. Nathaniel had removed it and quietly left her sleeping.

Nathaniel was in his office reviewing the recruitment projections when Sigrun returned. Her face, beneath the tattoos, was pale and drawn. She no longer wore the wide-eyed wonderment that made her seem younger than her years.

"Anya?" she asked without preamble, sinking into a chair across from his desk.

"Better. She ate this afternoon. She's sleeping, but it's a natural sleep now. Sarhal thinks she'll be up in another week. Knowing her, it will be sooner."

"Thank the Ancestors!" A heartfelt and relieved exclamation that Nathaniel mentally echoed.

Reaching into her hip kit, Sigrun extracted a gold chain. She held it up and he recognized it immediately. A charm was dangling from the chain; a small bird, wings spread. Anya had given it to Anders to celebrate his freedom from the Circle of Magi.

"Where did you find that?" he asked around a cotton dry mouth. He leaned across the desk to take it from her outstretched hand.

"I think Anders may be dead, Nate. We found a body, burned beyond recognition, in a field not far from the coast, near the old Bailey place. He must have been planning to take passage on a boat. Looks like he just – just combusted or something. There was nobody else around, no signs of a struggle. Believe me, I looked."

Nathaniel rubbed the golden bird with the same roughened thumb that he'd wiped Anya's tears away with and the irony was not lost to him. "This seems to be in remarkably good shape considering the owner was burned so badly you couldn't identify him. That seems rather convenient, don't you think?"

The young dwarf blanched. "You think he planted this to throw us off? You think he killed a stranger and planted the amulet? Anders? The kitten lover? The man who couldn't say 'no' to anyone who ever needed anything? The mage who healed broken bones and wept when someone in his care died? That man?"

Simmering rage nearly choked him, made his voice rough and harsh. "The man who let a spirit into him against the commander's orders? The man who single-handedly killed four templars and three Wardens? The man who nearly killed the woman he claimed to love? The man who _ate_ some of their remains? That man?" he asked, his expression as cold and bleak as a winter's night.

Silence settled; the air in the room was oppressive. Nathaniel dropped the chain on his desk and sat back, rubbing his forehead. "We have to accept the fact that the man we both called friend no longer exists. He's gone but I doubt he's dead. His survival instincts were always strong. I imagine with a demon feeding them, they're even stronger now. Inhumanly so."

"What do we tell Commander Anya?"

Nathaniel's laugh was devoid of humor. "We tell her what Anders wants us to tell her. He's dead. Do you think he didn't intend for this to be found?"

"Don't lie to her, you stone forsaken idiot!" Sigrun cried, shaking her head. "If you ever want those longing looks of yours returned you'd best be honest with her. She doesn't need another man lying to her."

Nathaniel groaned, embarrassed by her words, even more by her insight. "For a woman who claims to be dead, you're remarkably observant," he commented dryly. It was almost a relief that someone knew how he felt. Almost.

"Don't worry, Nate. I've kept the secret this long, I'll keep it until she wakes up and sees what's right in front of her."

Nathaniel shook his head. "Who else knows?"

"Varel, probably. He sees everything. But he's rooting for you, I can tell."

Another groan escaped before he could stop it. "I meant about the body, Sigrun."

"Oh. Right. Just me. Oh, and Jamie, but he won't tell anyone."

Nathaniel nodded, relieved. "I'll tell the commander and let her decide what to do with the information."

"Do you want me to continue the search? I can talk to people in the villages along the coast, nose around Highever's docks."

_Yes_! Maker knew he wanted her to. He wanted to know where that bastard had gone. He wanted to feel his fingers choking the life out of the mage he'd called brother. There were times when his anger frightened him with its intensity, when his need for revenge was an eerie echo of his father's own madness. Maybe there was more of Rendon Howe in him than he wanted to admit. The thought shook him all the way to his core. He wasn't. He would never be his father. He _couldn't_ be. But the thought was there, sitting in the back of his mind, taunting him.

"No. For now it will be best if we keep the whole thing quiet. The commander is worried enough about the repercussions. Fereldans appreciate the Grey Wardens for saving them during the Blight but there are already rumblings about an Orlesian woman holding property and title, Grey Warden or not. The nobles won't hesitate to use this as an excuse to remove her, even if it means exiling the Grey Wardens again."

Sigrun perched on the edge of her chair, all nervous energy. "I can be discreet. I want to know where that bloody nughumping, flea infested, bastard got off to."

Nathaniel blinked, surprised by the venom in her voice. Sigrun, who loved the bright and shiny world she'd been introduced to, didn't have a mean bone in her body. He studied her intently. She had lost comrades and friends as well. She was fiercely protective and loyal to Anya. It shouldn't come as a shock that she wanted to see justice carried out on the man who had destroyed so much of her life as well.

"For now, we leave it. The important thing is to get Anya up and walking again."

As soon as the words left his mouth he realized his mistake. It seemed he was more tired than he thought. He was letting his emotions, both good and bad, leak out for all to see. Rather than go back and correct the mistake, he ignored it in the hope that Sigrun would as well. Foolish notion.

"Nice to see you know her name," the dwarf snickered.

Her name, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, the soft smile she wore when she talked about her family in Val Royeaux, the way she tapped her chin when lost in thought. He knew. The way she guided her Wardens not just with words but with action; the way her dark red hair glowed like polished copper in the right light, the way she hummed when she was content. He knew.

"She'll wake up and see who's really important," Sigrun promised before getting up and leaving him to his thoughts.

Another week passed. The Wardens, under the leadership of Acting Commander Nathaniel, carried out their assigned duties, shadowy ghosts of themselves. They gathered each evening in the dining hall, peppering Nathaniel with questions and he tried to answer them all.

Varel entered Nathaniel's office the same morning Anya stood for the first time. The grey haired man, the rock of the Vigil, was holding a sealed packed. "From the King. A remarkably quick reply," Varel stated, grey brows drawn down.

"Good news never travels as fast as bad news," Nathaniel agreed, reaching for the packet.

* * *

><p>It was far easier for him than he imagined it would be; far easier than it s<em>hould<em> be. Much easier than any escape he'd made from the Tower. Dressed in plain linen trousers and shirt, he arrived at the docks in the city of Highever on a warm, bright day. It should have been cold and raining to match his mood. A ship, the Bountiful Harvest, was short of deckhands. He signed up. They were setting sail on the evening tide, bound for Kirkwall.

The first mate, a barrel-chested and dour looking man, glanced at Anders' pale and soft hands and let out an amused snort. "Ye'll nae last a day," he chortled. "Can ye even tie off a rope, laddie?"

"I can do whatever I need to do," Anders retorted. Was that him speaking or Justice? There were times when they seemed to be one and the same. Other times, Anders wasn't quite sure who was speaking or where he left off and Justice began. It was like barriers fell, moved, reformed, never in the same place for long. It was disorienting and frightening. More frightening was that he was beginning to accept it.

"Have at it, then, mate. Name?"

"Devon," Anders lied smoothly.

"Welcome, young laddie. I'm Beamish, first mate to Captain Snowden. Stow yer gear below deck."

His gear? The only thing he had in the way of gear was the small hip kit that contained his coin. He'd even tossed his staff away. Anders opened his mouth to explain his lack of belongings but the first mate shook his head.

"Don't tell me yer hard luck story, buck-o. I've heard 'em all."

Anders doubted that but only nodded and went below decks.

Three hours out, wrestling with the knotted rope used to check the depth of the water, Anders thought he might have been mistaken about his ability to do anything he needed to do. Blisters were forming, bursting, reforming. He refused to heal them, not because he was afraid of showing his magical abilities to his fellow crewmates, but because he deserved the blisters and so much more.

_You have no reason to punish yourself. Heal your hands, Anders._

"Shut up."

_Do you believe if you punish yourself that all the wrongs of the world will be suddenly righted? Do not be so naïve. You survived because __**we**__ have something far more important to accomplish. _

"Don't. Just don't."

"Here now, laddie, are ye speakin' ta the water?" First Mate Beamish asked with a knowing laugh. He tossed a pair of worn leather gloves at Anders.

"Wear 'em, young master _Devon_."

An unexpected kindness from a stranger and it nearly undid Anders. He wavered, staring back at the rapidly receding landmass that had been his home all of his life. What if he just jumped overboard? Would he make it back to shore to face his punishment or would he sink to the bottom of the Waking Sea where it wouldn't matter, where blessed silence would surely end the madness of his mind. He gripped the rail tightly.

_Do not be so dramatic, Anders. You __**want**__ to live; it is your nature to survive. You could have died many times but you always find a way._

"How could you have done that to Anya? She let you live when it would have been easier for her not to. She helped you find your revenge against the darkspawn."

_This discussion is pointless, Anders. She yet lives. Would you have died to save her? Would you have sacrificed others so that she would live? I had not thought you so noble, Anders._

Anders gave an unhappy laugh. He wasn't noble. He had never been as noble as Anya had believed him to be. The first time he met her, he used her to further his own escape. He had turned on his charm and promised to help her. She had not asked him if he had killed the templars that littered the floor around him and he had not explained their deaths, either. She had such unshakeable faith in him, even when he had done nothing to deserve it. He pushed himself away from the railing and went back to work.

Anders discovered that if he kept himself extremely busy he could go for hours without remembering, without thinking about more than how to hoist a sail or swab the deck or one of the other countless, tedious tasks given him. He could collapse each night and not have nightmares. A week passed. Another week passed, his thoughts and emotions buried beneath fatigue. Anders began to breathe easier when it became evident that the Wardens were not chasing him; at least not yet.

They docked in Kirkwall late in the afternoon at the end of his third week. He disembarked, his meager possessions in a small cloth sack. He was dressed in patched canvas breeches and a homespun shirt, worn and stained and all he had in the way of clothing. He stayed with his shipmates as they made their way into the city. The sailors were a rowdy, raucous lot who were more than happy to help their newest shipmate find lodgings in Darktown. They didn't ask questions and he offered no information.

The Undercity, as it was called, was filthy, dark and rife with disease and despair. He opened a clinic, accepting only what the refugees and outcasts could afford, usually a scrap of bread, a trinket from their old life, a grateful thanks.

Still, he found himself staring across the sea some days, thoughts curling around Anya and a life he had so carelessly thrown away. Despair was his constant companion, robbing him of sleep some nights, of peace every night. The pain in him was more than he could bear at times and twice he tried to end his life, a simple poison learned years ago in the Tower.

Justice would not allow it. Or perhaps Anders wanted to believe that it was Justice who stopped him and not his own cowardice.

* * *

><p>Anya swiped at her tears, furious that she was still so weak. "Is this permanent?" she asked Sarhal.<p>

"I fear so, Commander Anya. Nathaniel did a fine job setting your leg but there was just too much damage to the bones. It will improve with time, however."

Sarhal, with a sympathetic bow, excused herself and Anya watched the diminutive elf scurry away.

Scrubbing away the rest of her tears, Anya stood on unsteady legs, alone in her room. Her days of fighting the darkspawn in close quarters, using agility and speed, a lightness of footwork, were over. She tossed the cane that Varel had made her into a dark corner of her room and took a hesitant step forward. Her gait hitched as her hip caught and she stumbled, barely catching herself in time to prevent herself from landing face first on the floor.

If she couldn't fight as she had been trained to, she would have to find another way to fight, it was just that simple. Except that nothing was simple. Andraste's grace, what had she done? What had she created in her own foolishness? Any lesson she had ever learned about command had deserted her when she most needed it. All of it, every death, every injury, everything could be laid on her shoulders. Shoulders that slowly bowed as the weight settled on them.

With painstaking care she made her way to her vanity and sank onto the low stool. How could she possibly continue on as the Commander of the Grey after what she had done? How could she ever be forgiven by Felsi? Or little Aedan, Oghren's pride and joy? How many others were suffering because she had allowed her love for Anders to cloud her judgment?

She would have to tender her resignation. More tears began to tickle her cheekbones and drip down to her chin. She let them fall, too tired to care. Everything she had ever worked toward and achieved meant nothing, just so many dreams that were now covered in blood and loss. She stared at her reflection expecting a hideous monster to stare back at her. It didn't seem right that her appearance was largely unchanged. A few bruises, the strange pale patch on her scalp, where her once red hair was coming in as white as the Frostback peaks, but she was still Anya Caron outwardly.

She picked up a small porcelain figurine and turned it over in her hands, frowning. A graceful young woman, with daggers drawn, long red hair trailing down her back and unblinking bright blue eyes, stared up at her. At the base of the figurine was engraved: _The Hero of Amaranthine._

She had laughed, embarrassed and delighted by the gift Anders had given her not too long ago. He'd found it in the city of Amaranthine. An industrious cottager had made a dozen of them to sell at the upcoming Summer Festival. It still amazed her that the people of the arling had taken to her, an Orlesian noble from the court of Celene. They should have hated her, and some had; Ser Guy, Bann Esmerelle, others. But the majority of people within her arling appreciated her honesty and her willingness to work with them. They were grateful to her for saving the city at the expense of her keep. But now she had let them down, let them all down. She had betrayed their trust, betrayed her Wardens' trust. How grateful would they be if they knew the truth? How willing would they be to follow her, if they knew what she was guilty of?

Hefting the figurine, she dashed it against a wall where it shattered in a satisfying shower of shards. She bowed her head and let the tears fall unchecked. Everything had changed. Every last thing. Her tears turned into great, gulping, breathless sobs. "Blessed Andraste, forgive me."

She struggled to stand and, with halting steps, made her way along the hall to the stairs that led up, and up, winding around to the turrets and battlements at the top of the Vigil. It took her nearly ten minutes to make the three minute trip up those stairs, one step at a time. And then the next. And another. Just one more. Sweat trickled down the valley between her breasts, made her hair cling damply to her forehead, by the time she pushed open the upper door and stepped onto the ramparts.

The wind was cool, chilling her overheated skin. She could smell the saltspray on the wings of the wind and she turned to face the Waking Sea. She had so much to atone for, so much to be forgiven for. Like a great sweeping tidal wave her shame and grief crashed into her and she stood swaying on the edge of the stone battlement. She stretched her arms out at her sides and raised her head to the warm benevolence of the bright sun.

Even if others could forgive her, she didn't know how to forgive herself. She didn't even know how to begin to do so. Or how to live with a pain that went beyond bone deep. A sob rose on the wind, carried away on the breath of the sea scented air.

"Blessed Andraste, full of grace, grant me your peace," she prayed and took a small, hitching step.

A hand, powerful and familiar, clamped around her upper arm, pulling her back from the precipice.


	3. Lies

**Chapter Two**

**Lies**

Anders left the clinic, as well as the stench of despair and hopelessness, behind him, bound for the rocky coastline in search of fresh herbs and fresh air. Ten days into his new life in Kirkwall and he felt aged beyond his years, felt as if he had lived two lifetimes since leaving Ferelden. Leaving? That made it sound as if he'd had a choice. Fleeing was more accurate.

The freshening breeze and bright sun seemed a gift from a benevolent Maker, a god he no longer had faith in. He wanted so desperately to believe again. To believe that Anya would understand why he had disobeyed her orders. To believe that even _he_ could be forgiven for his sins. He had been a devout Andrastian when he was younger, but like so many other things, the harsh realities of life as a mage and a Warden had beaten the belief out of him.

The fresh air seemed to have calmed Justice and there were moments, as he walked along, when Anders almost forgot Justice was there. He let his senses be lulled into a relaxed state by the scenery along the Wounded Coast. An appropriate name for a wounded soul in search of what he'd lost, Anders reflected dryly.

After two hours of gathering herbs and walking the twisting trails, Anders found a large, flat rock to sit on and brought out a hunk of stale bread. Rather than try and eat it, he broke it into pieces and threw it out on the water where both fish and fowl could enjoy it. He let his eyes search the horizon, allowed himself to wonder if anyone was searching for him, if the Wardens would exact revenge, if the templars knew of his crimes.

Without meaning to, he found his thoughts wandering to Anya. He missed her. Some nights he couldn't sleep for missing her. She had survived physically, but what had he done to her emotionally? He loved her and he had nearly killed her, knew he had broken her heart. Had he broken her fierce spirit as well?

_You did not love Anya. Not as Kristoff loved Aura. You were selfish, Kristoff was not. I…_

"Not now, Justice. I just want some peace and quiet."

_If not now, when? You seek peace but you cannot have peace without first having war. You have always avoided looking beyond the moment._

"Oh, so you think you know me now? Let me ask you something, Justice. You told Nathaniel and Oghren on a number of occasions that you would never possess a living body. Yet you actively sought one when Kristoff's body became too decomposed to bear. Was it Kristoff and Aura's love for each other that changed your mind? Envy for what Anya and I shared? The beauty of the mortal world? How far from a demon were you before you and I merged?"

The icy fire spiralled through him, sending his nerves screaming in agony. A low growl of pain escaped him as he tried to shut Justice out. It was impossible and his low growl turned into a sob as he relinquished his struggle to maintain himself. The pain began to subside.

"That's your idea of justice? Seems more like you want to control me. We agreed that we would be equals in this relationship," he gasped.

_You agreed to allow me to help you fight for the rights of mages. Instead you hide in that filthy clinic under the pretense of helping people._

"I am helping people, damn you! Many of them would die without my help!"

_Truly, Anders, you spend more time defending your life than living it. If you wish to help these mortals, you must help free the mages from their oppression. They could then assist in helping those in need. _

"And just what would you have me do?" Anders demanded angrily.

_I know of Karl, Anders. You and he planned escapes together, yet you never brought him along on your escapes. Still you insist you aren't a selfish man. Start with him. Free him. You owe him that, do you not?_

"So we'll free one mage at a time? I'll be dead long before I see the mages gain their independence," Anders snorted derisively.

The stabbing icy fire didn't hurt quite as much the second time. Anders flinched, but did not cry out.

_You lack discipline, Anders. An interesting discovery. Do mages not seek discipline to better control their spells and abilities?_

Anders bowed his head, wondering if a lie would serve him. He decided against it. Justice obviously saw him more clearly than he saw himself.

"I'll write to Karl but it will take time to reach him at the Ferelden circle."

_We must work towards our goal; justice for the mages. I am content to take as much time as is needed, as long as we are actively seeking this worthy goal. _

"You aren't really Justice any longer, are you?" Anders muttered spitefully. This time he didn't even writhe when the pain scorched his nerves. He had deliberately provoked the spirit. Was he seeking penance for his actions? Did he hope that pain would absolve him? Anders wondered how his own thoughts had become so twisted. He barely recognized himself. He had never believed himself to be selfish; hedonistic perhaps, but never selfish.

_I am a reflection of what was always within you, Anders. I am Justice but I am tempered by your rage, by the darkness in _your_ soul._

Anders remained silent, trying to keep his mind calm. It was a lie; he had never had that kind of darkness in him, not even when he had been captured and returned to the Tower after all those escape attempts. He closed his eyes against the sudden brutal image of the templars who had died during the attack on the Vigil. Anya hadn't asked him how they'd died, he hadn't told her and he didn't want to remember but Justice seemed to think he should.

_By your hands, lest you have forgotten, Anders. Do not tell me there is no darkness in you. I believe many mortals have such darkness. Perhaps that is what creates demons, that darkness in your souls. I have met very few mortals who have a light within them._

The image blurred and softened and winked out. Anders blinked, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to dispel the remnants of the image. "You have met very few mortals, Justice. I wonder who these paragons are that have a light within them."

_Come, Anders, we are friends. There is no need for this hostility. Together we can exact justice. _

It was disconcerting to know that the spirit of Justice, who at one time could no more lie than he could tell a joke, was suddenly becoming quite good at deception and diversion. Was that his influence, Anders wondered. He felt the sting of tears and blinked rapidly. Tears would not wash away the blood on his hands or the stain on his soul. Nor would it free him of what he had become.

Slowly, easing muscles that ached from Justice's retribution, Anders stood and gathered his herb sack. He turned once, to look out across the water, wondering if Anya would ever understand that he'd allowed Justice to merge with him because he believed it to be a noble act. He wondered if _he_ would ever truly believe that lie. He wondered if he'd ever had any control over the merging or if he'd simply fallen prey to the whispering of the demons of the Fade. For this creature who shared his life was no spirit, was not the Justice he had called friend. Anders did not want to believe that he had created the vengeful creature who was irrevocably wrapped around his very being.

Finding the trail once again, he started down the sandy path. He hadn't gone far when he felt the sharp stinging in his blood that announced darkspawn were near. Or Grey Wardens. He had never been able to distinguish the two as others had. Anya had teased him that it was because he saw them as one and the same. He followed the pull in his blood, jogging along the uneven path as he began to hear the sounds of a battle.

A Grey Warden, dangling like a rag doll in the fist of an ogre, was crying out in rage, trying to free himself. There were two other Wardens fighting a losing battle with a group of twenty hurlocks. One minute Anders was reaching through the Veil for a powerful enough spell to free the Warden and the next he was sitting on the ground next to the Grey Warden who'd been in the clutches of the ogre, casting a healing spell. He was nearly drained of mana and his head was throbbing.

_Heal him and be done with it. We must leave here before the Warden awakens._

"No, I need to tend to the others as well."

_There are no others. They perished. _

"Please don't tell me you killed them," Anders whispered, stricken. He sank back on his heels.

_I did not. Nor did you. The darkspawn killed them. I have avenged those who perished at the hands of the darkspawn._

The man on the ground moaned and tried to move. Anders ran healing hands along the man's ribcage and instructed, "Don't try to move yet, Warden. Your insides are as twisted as a pair of knickers."

A thought occurred to Anders as he healed the man. Were the Grey Wardens there to bring him back? They weren't familiar to him but once the thought was there it became a suspicion that bordered on paranoia. He put the Warden to sleep and searched the man's pack. Maps of Kirkwall and the surrounding area. He slipped the maps into his own pack and then tossed the man's empty pack in the direction of the dead darkspawn. When he was sure the man was sleeping deeply, Anders began burning the bodies of the other Wardens and the darkspawn. Then he sat down and continued healing the Warden.

An hour later, the Warden groaned and opened his eyes. "You're a Warden but not one I know. Who are you?"

The lie fell easily from his tongue. "Anders, from the Anderfels. I'm no longer a Warden, I resigned after the Blight."

"I am Stroud, Acting Commander of the Free Marches. I offer you my thanks, brother, for you will always be a Warden, whether you have given up fighting the darkspawn or not. Our fates are the same."

Anders fervently wished that was true.

* * *

><p>"You shouldn't be up here alone, Commander. You're still weak and it would be too easy for you to accidently fall," Nathaniel said calmly, releasing her arm. His heart was still beating wildly, stealing his breath from him, so loud in his chest that a deaf person could hear it banging into his ribs. The sight of her teetering on the edge of the battlements, arms spread, had been a frightening reminder of how fragile she still was. He should never have left her alone, he knew that now. For the foreseeable future someone would be with her at all times. She would hate that, but he wouldn't risk her life again.<p>

"Thank you. I needed to get some fresh air and the view was so lovely. I'm afraid I got too close to the edge. It was foolish of me to…" Anya began, her voice as ragged as his breathing. She trailed off with a slight shrug.

They both knew it was a lie and Nathaniel turned his eyes away from her, looking out at the rolling hills, green from recent rains; the slender stalks of wheat dancing gracefully in the breeze. Beyond that was the Waking Sea, bright blue and capped in white. Somewhere on the sea, or on the distant shore, was a murderer. A murderer that he very much wanted to find. Now was not the time, though. First he had to make sure Anya was healed both physically and emotionally. He schooled his expression before looking down at her.

"Of course Commander," he said and offered her his arm.

"I seem to have mislaid the cane that Varel so thoughtfully made," she murmured. Another lie. The Commander had never mislaid anything in all the time he'd known her, but it was a lie he allowed her.

Nathaniel wanted to sweep her up into his arms and carry her down the winding stairs and along the dark hallway to her room. A fine sheen of perspiration dampened her brow and she was shaking with fatigue but one look at her grimly determined expression stayed him. Instead he tried as unobtrusively as he could to support her as they made their way back.

"King Alistair will be arriving in two days, Commander. He is aware of the events and wishes to discuss the matter with you in person."

She paused, her shoulders slumping as she swayed slightly. He felt her lean against him briefly. "I'll need to have my letter of resignation ready by then," she finally said.

"No! You can't, An – Anders will be given a victory that he does not deserve," Nathaniel corrected himself. "Commander, I am more than willing to continue acting in your stead until you are well enough to resume your duties, but you've no reason to resign."

Heedless of the maid walking towards them, he turned Anya to face him, his hands now gentle as they rested on her arms. She could not give in to her need to punish herself for a crime that wasn't hers. How many times had she told him that same thing when he was determined to punish himself for his father's actions?

"Don't do this, Commander. What happened was not your fault. To resign would send the wrong message to your Wardens and would break Sigrun's heart," he said, his voice low and urgent. _And mine. It would break my heart to see you resign and leave_.

Nathaniel took a deep breath, trying to meet her eyes, trying to let her see how much he believed in her. He ducked his head slightly to bring himself eye level with Anya. She would not meet his gaze, instead lowering her head. He recognized the resignation, knew it was the pose of a defeated woman and he would not allow that. He _could_ not because if he didn't break through to her now, he believed he would lose her forever. A silent, bitter laugh. She was not _his_ to lose. She never had been.

The slumbering anger snapped awake and his grip tightened, nearly lifting her off her feet. Fear and anger gave his voice a rough, deep timbre that sounded strange in his ears but he had to make her listen. He had to get her to understand she could not give up. He looked down and saw that she was looking at him, tears filling her eyes and sliding down her cheeks.

"When we first met, you told me that betrayal was the act of a weak man, that treachery had its own punishments. You were talking about my father. You told me that I could either let the bitterness eat away any good I had within me or I could stand up and face that bitterness down," he said in a rush. "You let me out of my cell and handed me a dagger and then smiled at me. Smiled at me! When I asked why you would do such a thing, you told me it was because someone needed to have faith in me and since I didn't seem to have any faith in myself, you would have faith enough for the both of us." He paused and took a deep breath.

"I offer that to you now, Commander. I have faith enough for the both of us."

* * *

><p>Anya felt pathetically grateful to her Wardens. They stood in a solid mass behind her, polished and professional, an aura of proprietary guardianship emanating from them. On her right stood Nathaniel, his face reflecting a calmness that she did not share. Her legs were shaking, not with fatigue, but with nerves. He gave her a composed look from grey eyes that reassured and steadied her. She eased her grip on the cane and carefully handed it to Varel, who stood on her left. He, in turn, handed it to a servant who took it and quickly disappeared into the Vigil.<p>

"Let's show this Duster what for," Sigrun chirped from behind her.

Anya's lips wobbled into a smile. She would hardly call the man now riding towards them in a flash of gold armor a Duster. Still it was the very thing she needed to hear and she felt a release of tension.

"Please, Warden Sigrun, do not spike his tea this visit," Varel whispered, a long suffering sigh escaping him. Anya's smile grew.

"I have already explained to Sigrun what punishment she would face should she do that, Varel. You needn't worry," Nathaniel reassured.

There was such normalcy in their words and their manner that Anya could almost forget the nature of the king's visit. It could be any other state visit, on any given day and she was thankful to them all for that normalcy. It was the rock she would cling to. She straightened her shoulders and slipped on a calm, confident mask.

King Alistair's procession wound with slow dignity around the circular drive to stop with great ceremony at the foot of the Vigil's stairs. The King's banners whipped in the wind, purple and gold with the Theirin crest emblazoned in the center of the banners in a rich royal blue. Grooms, dressed in the royal colors, jumped to assist the king as he dismounted and then solemnly led his horse away.

Anya had practiced curtseying for hours in the hope that she would do so without incident once the king arrived. Bending one knee and sweeping the other behind her, she dipped, keeping her body straight. She only hoped she could rise without falling into an embarrassed heap.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Alistair Theirin complained, removing his gauntlets and offering her a hand up. She was grateful for the assistance.

"I bid you welcome to Vigil's Keep, Your Majesty."

"Teagan, haven't I told Anya not to call me that?" Alistair asked, throwing a glance at the Lord Chancellor of Ferelden.

"Many times, Your Majesty," the older man replied with a smile. "It is good to see you well, Anya," he added with a quick bow.

"Thank you, Teagan. I am doing much better," Anya lied with a bright smile.

They entered the keep and she gratefully accepted Nathaniel's arm as they made their way to the great hall. She was sorry now her pride had demanded she do away with her cane and she was curiously light-headed as they walked slowly along the familiar hallways. It all seemed like a dream; the light banter, the warm greetings. It was all so terribly _normal_. It seemed wrong for such normalcy when so much of her world had changed. She blinked, trying to focus on the events unfolding before her. The king, looking as nervous as a child giving his first recital, gave a short speech thanking the gathered Wardens and support staff for their dedication to duty and expressing regret and sorrow for their recent losses. There was a murmuring wave around them as the Wardens thanked the king and filed out of the hall.

"Varel will show you to your chambers, Your Majesty. I apologize for not seeing to that duty myself but I fear you would age greatly were I to do so. The stairs still present a bit of a challenge."

The king, his dark hazel eyes kind, took her hands in his and squeezed them. "Stop with the Majesty nonsense. I'm Alistair, a subordinate Warden, when I'm here, Anya. And we are brother and sister. Now, if you want to call Teagan Most High Lord Chancellor of Ferelden, I hear he actually enjoys all that pomp and ceremony."

Anya was surprised into a chuckle. "I can't imagine he agrees with you, Your – Alistair."

"See, was that so hard?" Alistair teased.

"When you have had time to settle in your chambers, we can meet in my office and discuss Warden business. I have had Effie prepare those raspberry sweetmeats you enjoy."

"Great incentive. Come on, Teagan," Alistair said, striding off so quickly that Teagan and Varel were forced to double step in order to catch up.

As soon as the group was out of sight of the great hall, Anya leaned heavily against Nathaniel. "I think perhaps I should find my way to my office and sit down before I fall down," she confided wearily.

"Of course, Commander."

"I suppose the rumor about you and Varel is true," she continued as Nathaniel escorted her to her office.

"Do I want to know what that rumor is?" Nathaniel asked and there was a wary amusement in his voice, surprising Anya.

"Perhaps not, but I'll tell you anyway. The rumor is that you and Varel have a bet as to who will finally break down first and call me by my given name," she answered, flashing a smile up at him. She was rewarded with a low rumbling chuckle. It comforted her, somehow, to have Nathaniel beside her. It gave her a strength to face the upcoming meeting when she would rather flee to her rooms and pretend nothing at all had happened. He was a good friend, an excellent Second.

Anya barely had time to settle in her office before Alistair and Teagan arrived, both wearing casual clothes and serious expressions. Varel, Nathaniel and Sigrun rose from their chairs but Alistair waved them back, blushing.

"Please stop doing that," he pleaded, flashing a boyish grin. "I was a Warden first."

After tea was poured and a plate of sweetmeats passed around, Alistair leaned forward, a serious expression replacing his usual grin. "I don't want it known that Anders escaped or that he is responsible for the deaths of not only his fellow Wardens but also the templars. Ferelden is still far too unstable for that kind of thing to get out. I've already started spreading rumors. Well, I personally haven't. I'm told kings aren't supposed to do that sort of thing, but I have people spreading rumors that the deaths were an unfortunate tragedy caused by a band of darkspawn and that you were the only one who survived."

Anya watched as Alistair ran his fingers through his hair. It occurred to her that he had been Oghren's friend long before she had met either of them. A swift, stabbing pain knifed through her. Guilt wrapped in shame. Another reminder of how badly she had failed her people.

"I am sorry, Alistair. I failed in my duty as the Commander of the Grey and will understand if you would prefer that someone more trustworthy assume the duties as the commander," she said quietly, meeting his searching gaze squarely.

"What? Are you daft? You didn't fail anything, Anya. Teagan, did I say anything about her failing?"

"No, nor has anyone else."

"I want you to continue on, Anya. Continue building up the Wardens. However, I do have one request. Actually, consider it more of a royal command. Don't go after Anders. If word gets out that he is alive and responsible for the massacre there is a good chance that the nobles will call a Landsmeet to vote for the removal of the Wardens from Ferelden. I don't want that. There would also be a big fuss from the Grand Cleric about templars being slain by Wardens. Another something I don't want. I doubt the First Warden would either. I've already sent a message to him explaining my position."

"But he is dangerous, Alistair!" she protested, disappointment and anger sharpening her tone.

"He hasn't gone on any rampages that we know of and we believe he's long gone from Ferelden. If the Wardens want to find him, let it be Wardens from somewhere else who do so discreetly. You can't afford to be seen in anything other than a positive light, at least not now," Teagan interjected, his voice calming and irritatingly rational.

"Exactly. I know he was a personal _friend_, but you'll have to let go of any ideas of chasing after him," Alistair agreed.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Nathaniel stiffen and start to say something but she shook her head, almost imperceptibly, and he held his tongue. Damn the politics that interfered with what should be done. Damn the politicians and their folly, but she knew the First Warden would agree with Alistair. It wasn't right. It was her duty to find him and kill him. Anya's jaw clenched against the torrent of angry protests that wanted to escape. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Anders deserved to be brought to justice. If she wasn't allowed to go after him, she would, by the Maker, know where he was and what he was doing, if for no other reason than to be prepared for the destruction that would surely follow in his wake.

"Of course, Alistair. I understand," she lied quietly.


	4. Lessons

**A/N:** _My thanks to icey-cold for batting around spirit/demon ideas today. _  
><em>Also, my continued thanks for those reading and reviewing. <em>

**Chapter 3**

**Lessons**

Sweat trickled down her back in sticky rivulets. She could feel the moisture of it slicking her skin under the heavy padding, dripping from her face as she pressed forward with her sword. She stumbled on the uneven ground and cursed, soft Orlesian curses that flowed off her tongue like water droplets off a leaf.

"Again, Sigrun," she finally said, bringing her sword arm up with a snap.

They both knew it was futile, but neither of them would admit defeat; Anya because she wouldn't allow it and Sigrun, she suspected, was afraid of what that might mean. Anya tried to smile her reassurance at the young dwarf, who grinned her encouragement in return. Anya wasn't sure what she would do if she couldn't fight. It would be foolish of her to stay with the Wardens but the thought of returning to her family in Val Royeaux, to attend to Empress Celene as a lady-in-waiting made her grit her teeth and dig in her heels.

She straightened her arm and flexed her wrist, setting her sword tip vibrating slightly. She mimicked the bouncing movement, rocking gently on the balls of her feet. If her enemy would stand still and let her beat it to death or stab it, she could still fight the way she had been trained from the time of her childhood.

Each muscle knew, out of long formed habit, how to instinctively lunge and parry, block and pivot, duck and dodge. Now her right leg simply refused to move at her command and when it did move, it twisted painfully and hitched at her hip. She growled in frustration as her heel caught on a small tuft of grass and she tripped. Unable to catch herself, she sprawled in the dark, rich soil.

"Ah come on, Anya, you can do it," Sigrun urged, offering her a hand up. There was no pity in Sigrun's blue eyes and for that Anya was thankful.

The training dummy seemed to be smirking at her. She struggled to her feet again and bent down awkwardly to pick up her sword. The anger came then, the dark roiling fury that seemed to devour her at times. It frightened her, the strength of her rage. She had never been one to get angry. Her brother, Raoul, used to tease her that she could never be a berserking warrior like he was because she refused to allow herself to become angry. Now that she had the anger, she did not have the ability.

"Maker take you," she hissed furiously, attacking the target dummy over and over, ripping into the cloth covering, her voice low and hoarse as she hurled epithets at the hapless dummy. She blinked, staring down at the shredded mess of straw and linen. Her breath was coming in gasps and she doubled over, hands on her thighs. She dropped her practice sword in the dirt and straw, trying to catch her breath. How could she ever lead her men if she could not walk without stumbling? If she could not fight without falling down? If she could not control the terrifying rage that overtook her at the least little provocation?

Sigrun, face pale and eyes wide, said nothing. Instead the dwarf picked up the sword and kicked at the straw dummy before turning and making her way to the armor stand just outside the Vigil's side door. Anya watched her go, wondering what she could say to her friend and comrade to reassure her that they would all recover from the devastation. No words came to her.

She struggled to stand up and when her hip caught again, she sank down and then stretched out on her back, defeated. She wiped her padded arm across her sweat soaked face, leaving a smear of dirt on her cheek. She gazed up at the sky. The sun mocked her, bright and warm as it stared down at her. The blue expanse of the heavens seemed to stretch on forever. Everything about the day seemed so normal. Life went on as it always had but she felt out of step with it. She gave a bitter, ragged bark of laughter. She was _literally_ out of step with it. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. So she would no longer be able to fight with sword and dagger. Then how? By what means would she be able to command her Wardens?

A shadow crossed her mind; a memory of a day much like this. She and Anders had slipped away before the others were even stirring. They had ridden out to a bluff overlooking a small inlet of the Amaranthine Ocean, as giddy as children escaping their studies. It seemed a lifetime ago and she supposed it was because the lovers who had shared breakfast and dreams that morning were gone. Her hands curled into fists. Damn him. Damn him to the Void. She would find him. Even if she was not permitted to exact justice, she would know where he had run to.

"Commander? Are you planning on napping there all day?"

"It is a plan worthy of me, don't you think?" she asked, opening her eyes. He was blocking out the harsh sun and she found herself staring into Nathaniel's watchful grey eyes.

"No. No I don't think so," Nathaniel responded grimly. She blinked. He seemed angry with her and she wasn't sure why. But getting angry with her was not a good idea. She had enough anger sizzling along her nerve endings waiting for a chance to leap into her blood and seize control of her emotions.

"I meant nothing by that, Nathaniel. I'm just tired after my workout."

Even in her own head the words sounded hollow and flat. She sat up slowly and wiped her face on her sleeve again, leaving an even bigger smear on her cheek. Her Second reached out a hand and she accepted it, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

"I have an idea, Commander. You may not ever be able to fight with a sword and dagger but you can still fight. Take up the bow. I'll teach you. Varel will if you'd prefer. He's a fine archer in his own right."

The words were spoken with a gruff kindness and something more, something indefinable that made her feel a small ripple of hope. He had faith in her, he said he would have enough for both of them and she wanted to believe in those words because she lacked faith not only in herself but in the kindness of her fellow man.

She was cynical and prickly and as far from the woman who had arrived in Amaranthine nearly a year ago as it was possible to be. That Anya's outlook had been bright and lively, she'd had a cocky optimism and unwavering belief in her abilities. She'd willingly believed the very best of her fellow Wardens and recruits and those she met. She knew all people had kindness within them; it was just waiting to be acknowledged and set free. No more. Now she saw everything with a dose of mistrust. She ought to thank Anders for the lessons he had bestowed on her.

"I've no bow, and when I tried to use one before I was quite possibly the worst archer in Orlais," she finally replied, staring out across the practice yard at the mangled dummy. For her to have such rage within her was frightening. Was she more like the spirit-demon of Justice than her former self? Was that kind of fury residing in everyone, or just a few?

"That was Orlais. What do they know about bows and archers? Here, Fereldans understand the importance of fighting from range."

She huffed a bit at that, but he was correct. She needed to channel her anger into a healthy outlet or it would consume her. "Very well," she agreed quietly.

"Good, we'll start this afternoon. There are a number of bows in the armory. Let's see if we can find one that fits your grip."

Anya was not sure why he cared so much. He would become the Arl of Amaranthine and the Commander of the Grey of Ferelden if she resigned and went searching for Anders. Did he feel sorry for her, the broken little Orlesian commander? Poor little wretched cripple?

"Don't do this because you pity me," she said, voice cold and clipped as her anger and pride began to bleed into her emotions again like a wound picked open by unseen fingers.

"You have enough _self_ pity, there's no need for anyone else's," he replied, her own cold and clipped tones neatly reflected back at her.

Was his pride bleeding too? If so, why? Was he as angry with Anders as she was? If so, why? She stopped, placing a hand on his arm. She forced herself to meet his cool grey eyes.

"Forgive me, Nathaniel. You aren't deserving of my anger. I don't know how to let go of it but that isn't your fault," she said stiffly.

"Your Wardens don't know that, do they? They fear you, they avoid you. How can they know that it isn't their fault when you snarl at them for the least little thing?" Nathaniel replied and his voice was still cold and clipped.

It occurred to her as her temper rose and her fingers clutched like talons at his arm, that he was deliberately provoking her but the bile rose in her and burned her throat, despite her insight. Anger twisted in her, dark and bitter.

"You will not speak to me this way, Nathaniel," she ground out through clenched teeth.

"Ah, I see. You can speak to me like I am less than human but I'm not allowed to challenge you?"

"Don't do this, Nathaniel. It will serve no-one, least of all you."

"And what of you, Commander? You have done nothing but mope around here as if you are the only one who lost anything. We all did. We lost friends. We lost comrades. Apparently we have lost our commander as well," he said in that cool, controlled voice.

"That is enough!" she burst out, her fingers digging into his arm. She saw an almost imperceptible flinch from him and looked down to see she had broken through the linen cloth of his sleeve and right into the skin of his forearm.

She dropped her hand and looked at him, horrified at what she had done. She was becoming the demon now, she was the one whose rage was taking control of her. She felt the warmth of tears stinging in her eyes and she blinked rapidly. _She was the monster now_. Maker, how had it come to that? She had hurt the one person who could understand the darkness within her. Her anger receded like the tide racing back to the sea.

"Please forgive me."

"Commander, you can't keep doing this. Learn to channel that rage before it destroys you," Nathaniel urged and his voice was softer, smoother, as if the earlier coldness had been wrapped in a warm blanket. "You aren't who you are beginning to believe you are. You aren't a cripple to be pitied and you aren't some raging hellion bent on revenge. You are still Warden Commander Anya Caron. You are who you have always been. Stop giving Anders so much power."

Anya stared down at her hands, now clasped in front of her. His words settled into her, resting not just in her conscious thoughts, but in her heart. She stood in silence as she let his words wash away the anger in her. For now, she felt her equilibrium restored. He was right. She was giving Anders too much power and she had neglected not just her duties but her people as well. It was time to learn to be herself again. Somehow.

"Perhaps the archery lessons will do the trick," she replied after long moments, and it was her voice that reflected his tone now.

"As you say, Commander."

* * *

><p>"Justice, what happened to the Spirit of Faith? She helped to fuel my most powerful healing spells."<p>

_Why do you assign sex to a spirit? We are not as you mortals are_.

"Faith's voice sounded like a woman's voice, her spirit essence looked like a woman. You sound like a man, your spirit essence looked like a man."

_Yes, I understand. You may continue to refer to me as a male. It's appropriate now that we are merged._

"And the answer to my question? She didn't –" Anders paused, uncertain how to frame the question. Could a spirit actually die in the Fade? He wasn't sure and he had never thought to ask his Spirit of Faith anything. There were, he was learning, a great many things he hadn't asked her.

_Two spirits cannot possess the same mortal. Her connection to you was a connection that only existed in the Fade. Such a link between mortal and spirit is weak. Her link to you was severed by my merging. _

"Is it you who helps fuel my spells now?"

_I augment your own power, yes. Haven't you noticed the difference? Her spells were a pale blue, surrounded by a faint golden aura. Mine is a darker blue and there is no such aura._

Was that impatience in Justice's voice? Remorse? Something different and Anders opened his mouth to ask another question.

_You have your explanation. There is no need for further discussion._

Anders fell silent. He was trying to learn the edges and boundaries of their merging; where he left off and Justice began but he was learning only that the edges and boundaries were becoming blurred and impossible to define.

"Anders! Look! I've found a silver piece!" Cricket cried, his eyes lit with joy.

Anders stood and walked over to the young boy and ruffled his hair. "Evelina will be happy to see that," he remarked with a smile.

"I want to get something for Evelina. She looks so tired all the time. What should I get her, Anders?"

What indeed? He reached up to touch the bird charm that Anya had gifted him only to drop his arm. He had left it behind, in a field next to a burned husk of a man, hoping that Anya would think him dead and move on with her life.

"Ask Lirene, Cricket. I'm no good at figuring out what women want. I only wind up hurting them."

Lirene, a merchant refugee from Ferelden became his lifeline, bringing Anders news and food through a young boy who knew the underground passageways and tunnels of Kirkwall like they were old friends. She sent those who needed urgent healing to him and in return he prepared poultices and potions for her to distribute among the other Ferelden refugees who clogged Lowtown and the docks. Occasionally she would send along coin, which he usually gave to Evelina, a young refugee apostate who had collected an odd and ever growing assortment of Ferelden orphans.

In the weeks that followed his rescue of Stroud, Anders began to learn how to manage his anger, and consequently, Justice. He could still feel Justice inside him, a shimmering wave of light and thought that seemed to be irretrievably entwined with Anders's soul. Even if he wanted to be rid of Justice, death would be the only way and then only if it came by someone else's hand. Justice had already shown he wouldn't allow Anders to commit the deed himself.

He remembered, one night when his rage boiled and bubbled inside him, that Anya had seldom become angry. He was in awe of her even-tempered assessment and resolution of any given situation. The only time he had seen her angry was during their final meeting with the Architect when she realized it was the Architect who had started the fifth Blight. She had flown at the emissary with dagger and sword flashing and killed him almost before he finished speaking.

She confessed to him later that she remembered very little of the battle; she only remembered the searing rage within her. She hoped never to see such anger in herself again; it horrified her that such a thing was within her. When he had asked her how she managed her anger she said she didn't have any to manage. She had been taught that life held too much goodness to waste time on being angry. Life, she said, was a gift to be treated as one would treat a lover, not an enemy.

Each day, Anders focused on finding the good in life but it was difficult, living in Darktown, to find any reason to believe life was good. If anything, it reinforced his belief that life was a savage spirit, bent on breaking mankind. But there were, he discovered, moments when life gave him glimpses of the sweetness, the goodness that Anya had spoken of. Delivering a young widow's baby and having her name her son after him; a young boy bringing him freshly baked scones that reminded him of mornings spent on the battlements at the Vigil sharing breakfast and the sunrise with Anya. The long walks once a week along the Wounded Coast on his search for herbs and solitude were always soothing and restful and he went for hours thinking of nothing, his thought adrift on the ocean like flotsam.

Justice railed, at times. He pushed at Anders until Anders wrote to Karl. He fussed and fumed when Anders refused to assist the growing mage underground. He did not need to bring any more notice to himself than was absolutely necessary. He preferred his view of the Gallows from across the harbor. When he told Justice that, Justice became a living, breathing flame of fury and vengeance, berating Anders with a litany of Anders's failings as a human. Anders laughed at that notion. He wasn't human, not really. But when he dared think of himself as an abomination, Justice flared, sparking hot embers of rage into Anders so Anders learned not to even think such thoughts.

Weeks passed and then months came and went. He heard from Karl, who had volunteered to come to Kirkwall to assist in teaching young apprentices. Anders was horrified and immediately wrote back tell him not to come. It was too late. Much too late. As he always was. His self-loathing became a cold, hard knot in him, always present. He would have to work with the mage underground and find a way to help Karl escape. Justice approved and for a brief few seconds Anders felt a warm caress along those same nerves that usually suffered the fiery sparks of Justice's rage.

He was becoming a trained host. The thought sat quietly in his mind and Anders found himself waiting for retribution or denial.

There was only silence from Justice.

* * *

><p>"Here, hold your hands up like this," Nathaniel said, demonstrating.<p>

Holding his clasped hands at arm's length, so that just a small circle was formed where his hands joined, he glanced at Anya. She followed his lead.

"Now look at the head of the second training dummy through that hole formed by your hands. Slowly bring your hands towards your face until they touch your face. The hole formed by your hands should be over one of your eyes. That's your aiming eye."

The lessons learned in his youth came skittering into the forefront as he began the slow process of teaching Anya how to be an effective archer.

"Just as my right arm is my strongest, my right eye seems to be my aiming eye," Anya said, dropping her hands to her sides.

"That's usually the case but I've seen others who were right handed but their left eye was dominant. This just means it will be easier for me to teach you."

"You seem to think I'll be a good student. My temper tantrum earlier would seem to suggest otherwise," she replied lightly.

Nathaniel let out a small puff of laughter. "I have thick skin."

"Yet I managed to get under it."

Yes, she had indeed. He actually felt a fluttering sensation as he stood close to her and demonstrated the correct stance. He could smell the roses from her newly washed hair and the honey and milk soap she bathed with. It tickled and tantalized. He wanted to pull her close and breathe her in. He wanted to tell her that she wasn't alone. He wanted to ask her to let him in. Instead he dug his heel in the ground and drew a line in the dirt perpendicular to the training targets.

"This is the shooting line. Straddle the line with your feet shoulder-width apart. Balance the weight evenly on your feet so that they compensate for your injury."

She nodded, following his instructions with a furrowed brow. She wanted to make amends, he saw that. She was tense, her posture tight. He touched the back of her neck lightly, just a gentle press of his fingers.

"Relax, Commander. The bow is not your enemy," he chuckled. He watched as the tendrils of hair that had loosened from her braid fluttered. He wanted to reach out and let a tendril curl around his bare finger, to feel the silk of it against his skin. _Maker, get a grip before you scare her away._

"When you are comfortable, nock your arrow. Once you've done that, raise your arm while drawing back the bowstring. Don't move your stance at all. Hold your body as still as possible and slow your breathing. Aim and then take your shot. See how close you can get to the center of the target."

He watched with a practiced eye as she did as she was told. His eyes tracked the trajectory of the arrow as it sailed beyond the target to the left and found a home in the second rail of the fence that enclosed the practice yard.

"Well, that will certainly prevent any bandits or darkspawn from bothering me. They will be too busy laughing to attack," she remarked dryly, looking over her shoulder at him. Nathaniel saw a hint of a smile and he returned it with a half smile of his own.

"I should have told you to keep your body still but _relaxed_. The breathing should be deep and slow. Like this," he said, breathing in deeply through his nose and letting it out slowly, also through his nose.

Anya frowned at him. "Show me again?" she asked, placing a hand lightly on his chest.

It was difficult to breathe at all with his heart jumping at her touch but he demonstrated once again. She removed her hand from his chest and then took his hand and placed it on her leather clad chest.

"Like this?" she asked, mimicking his breathing.

For a split second, Nathaniel considered lying. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath, the gentle curve of her breasts just below his palm but she was watching him with trusting blue eyes and he nodded. "Just like that," he agreed and removed his hand.

"You also bent your left arm at the elbow. That will always shorten your shot and pull it left."

"Yes, I see that," she replied, smiling wryly. "But I feel certain that rail is dead."

His chuff of laughter escaped before he had time to stop it. This was the old Anya, full of dry, self-deprecating humor. There was a grace in her, standing there without the aid of her cane or the anger that tightened her muscles into knots. He wondered how long it would last before the anger and hurt returned. With luck, it would not.

The lesson resumed and he watched her again with the eyes of an archer, noting her penchant for dipping her chin slightly when she released and putting more weight on her left leg than her right. She was using a new set of muscles and he was sure she would be sore in the morning.

"That is enough for today, Commander. You will be lucky if you can raise your arms above your head tomorrow."

"Anya."

"Commander Anya."

"My name is Anya. We are equals while you are acting in my stead. Honestly, Nathaniel. Would you like me to call you Warden all the time? Or Warden Nathaniel? Or Second in Command Nathaniel?" she asked, curving an eyebrow up as she waited for his answer.

"I'm partial to Second in Command-but-now-Acting Warden Commander Nathaniel Howe, actually."

She gaped at him before laughing softly. "Why Nathaniel, you do have a sense of humor," she remarked and continued on.

"Only on rare occasions, Commander."

They entered the Vigil through the side door and wound their way through the ground floor to the long hallway that housed their offices. Varel met them just outside of Nathaniel's office. His face was grim.

"Word has come from your enquiries, Commander Anya. Anders has been found."


	5. Sun and Moon

**A/N:** _Sorry for the delay in updating. I hit a brick wall and then real life had the temerity to get in the way.  
>My continuing thanks to all of you who are reading, subscribing and especially those who take the time to review.<br>Special thanks to lisakodysam for her encouragement when my muse erected that brick wall. _

**Sun and Moon**

Margaret Hawke sank into a chair and stretched her feet out to the fire that glowed brightly in the Hanged Man's fireplace. She was sitting at _her_ table, as Corff called it, and waiting for Varric to come downstairs. A low buzz of noise, punctuated with raucous laughter, drowned out all but her darkest thoughts.

"I don't see why we can't just go now," Carver complained. It was the same complaint he'd made for the past three months. "We have the money. What are we waiting for?" He was slouched in a wooden chair next to her, his boots beginning to steam from the heat of the fire. His face was set into its customary stubborn lines.

"If you don't like the way I'm doing things, Carver, please feel free to go back to Uncle Gamlen's place."

Maker, she was tired. She was tired of feeling that she'd failed her father, tired of taking miserable jobs for meager pay in order to get them out of the hellhole that her uncle called a home, tired of the silent accusations that darkened her mother's eyes and most especially tired of Carver's vitriol. She took a long pull of the swill the Hanged Man passed off as ale.

"We can find a way in, sister. Sitting here is asking for trouble."

"Cheer up, Carver. _You_ won't be the one in trouble," Hawke said with false cheer. He fell into a moody silence but he might just as well have been screaming his recriminations. Disapproval thickened the air between them. A rift that grew ever wider as the days passed.

"That's not what I meant and you know it. Why don't we just find another way into the Deep Roads?"

Any softness in Margaret Hawke had been honed and sharpened by her new life as an apostate in Kirkwall until such softness no longer existed. There was constant worry, constant fear in each blighted day in the city that was ruled by the iron-fisted Knight Commander Meredith. A constant anger that simmered below the polite smile she wore like a badge of honor. _See, I can smile no matter what life hands me_ the smile proclaimed.

Would they have enough to eat? Would the templars come knocking at the door of the hovel they were forced to live in? Would the expedition into the Deep Roads be profitable or one more dead end in the maze that her life had become? Would her mother ever forgive her? Would Carver ever realize only he could take the necessary steps to walk away from her shadow?

Looking up from her mug she saw Carver waiting impatiently for an answer. "You want us to just wander aimlessly, searching for a decent way into the Deep Roads?" There was far too much sarcasm in her voice for his liking, she saw that by the way his lips tightened and his green eyes narrowed.

She turned at the sound of thick soled boots treading with care around the tables. A dwarf, dressed in a tight fitting leather coat and sporting a broad grin was weaving his way through the patrons of the tavern, a sleek, highly polished crossbow on his back. She returned his grin, though she knew hers was subdued. He was one of the few people who could turn her polite smile into something genuine.

"Hawke, my sources finally came through. It seems a Grey Warden here in Kirkwall has the maps we need. And you doubted me. I'm hurt," Varric Tethras chided. He touched his chest and shook his head in demonstration of his wounded pride. She smiled in genuine affection.

"Which he will give us with no questions asked and no favors demanded, I'm sure," she responded dryly.

"Not bloody likely. Finish that piss you drink and let's go."

Margaret Hawke, just Hawke to her friends because, as Varric put it, she looked about as much like a Margaret as he did a king, sighed. She tossed a silver piece on the table and stood. "Lead away, Varric."

They were nearly at the door when Varric stopped and peered around her. "You coming, Junior?"

"Stop calling me that, dwarf!" Carver ground out.

"Sorry. Maybe I should call you Sulky?"

"Carver. My name is Carver."

"Junior, nicknames are a sign of affection."

"Oh? Then why do you call Aveline by her name? You seem fond of her," Carver challenged.

"Because Aveline scares the shit out of me. Have you seen her arms? She could crack my head open like it was a ripe melon."

Hawke chuckled, a rusty rumble of sound. She had found very little to laugh about since her sister had died. Carver rarely wasted an opportunity to remind her that she was responsible for Bethany's death. She couldn't blame him, really. He'd lost more than a sister; he'd lost his twin and best friend.

During the family's escape from Lothering Hawke had turned away for just a moment and in that moment, Bethany had attacked an ogre and died doing so. Her mother blamed Hawke and every time Hawke looked in her mother's eyes she saw the accusation there. Carver had given voice to those accusations on more than occasion and she couldn't deny the truth of his words.

Father had left the care of the family in her hands; had extracted a promise from her that she would defend them unto death. Here she was alive and Bethany dead; left alone on a ruined stretch of the old Imperial Highway like so much refuse. Maker, would the pain ever stop? Eighteen months later and she still felt it like a fresh wound.

"You coming Hawke? Or are you still staring at Ludlow's ass?" Varric asked. Hawke shuddered at the thought but Ludlow's laughter followed them out the door.

"Let's go find this Grey Warden and hope he is willing to part with his maps without a fuss. I'm not disposed to friendly persuasion."

"You've been hanging around Aveline too much, Hawke. You're beginning to sound like her and that's no way to sound. Just don't tell her I said that."

"Why? You don't actually like the way your nose looks, do you? She could rearrange it for you in no time."

Varric chuckled. "Where'd you find a sense of humor, Hawke?"

"Lirene's Fine Ferelden Imports, in the discount barrel. When are you going to find yours?" she retorted. And for a moment, with the fresh air sweetly tickling her nose, Hawke found a moment's respite. Even Carver's hiss of disapproval could not diminish her laughter.

* * *

><p><em>Sister,<br>I've seen your bird. He flies in Kirkwall. Shall I cage him?  
>Your brother,<br>S_

Anya sat down at her desk before handing the note to Nathaniel. She felt light-headed and curiously empty. Shouldn't she rejoice? She knew where Anders was and could exact revenge if she chose to, or she could just have him watched. Was it shock that made it seem less like a victory than the desperate act of a wronged woman? Was she that pathetic? Retribution or revenge served no purpose, but Maker, she wanted Anders to know what he had left in his wake.

Nathaniel and Varel were waiting for her to say something. What should she say? What _could _she say? She thought of the other Wardens and what she would tell them. Nathaniel was right. She was not the only one who'd suffered at the hands of Anders. It was more than time for her to visit with her Wardens and let them know that she was still their commander and she still cared about them. Nathaniel's words had broken through that wall of her grief, shaming her but also liberating her in some small way. She cleared her throat.

"You were right, Nathaniel. He's gone across the Waking Sea to Kirkwall."

"I take no pleasure in being correct, Commander."

She glanced up at him and was surprised to see how tight his mouth was drawn, how grim his expression was. Did he expect her to fall apart again? She noted that he was back to calling her Commander as well, his walls firmly in place. She hardly blamed him, she was still battling her own need to withdraw again, to nurse her hurt. Somehow she would have to show him that she was ready to face the present, even if she wasn't prepared to look beyond that yet.

"Nathaniel you spoke of Kirkwall; you spent some time there, did you not? Have you friends that could keep an eye on our bird? I want to know what Anders is doing there. I know Stroud will do it for me until First Warden Magnus orders otherwise but I would rather not have anyone know that I'm having him watched."

"I have a number of friends in Kirkwall, Commander Anya. I will contact them immediately."

"Only do so if you are comfortable doing it, Nathaniel. I am going against King Alistair's request by doing this and I'll not have you get into trouble should it come to light. Anders is not worth that," Anya finished, rising from her chair. She reached for her cane and began to pace the room with a hitching gait.

"I serve you, Commander, not the King of Ferelden," Nathaniel said with a note of disdain in his voice.

"He is well within his rights and his decision is a sound one. We can't afford to alienate Fereldans over this. We have a great deal of work to do to rebuild the Order; a task that will be infinitely easier with the good will of the king. I hate his request as much as you do, possibly more, Nathaniel."

She continued pacing, beginning to feel the deep ache of muscles too long unused and protesting their ill-treatment. "I think I may need to send to the Circle for a new spirit healer. Sarhal is a good combat healer but even she admits that she cannot heal serious wounds. I think if a spirit healer re-breaks my leg there is a chance it will mend properly."

"Are you sure you want another spirit healer?" Varel asked, his voice calm and careful.

It was the type of voice one used when speaking to someone who was hysterical or insane. Which was she, in Varel's estimation? Probably the latter. Anya chuckled, turning to face her seneschal. He wore his stoic, braced-for-anything expression. His eyes were a muddy grey at the moment, watchful and wary.

In the past that expression had always made her want to tease him. "I don't think spirit healers actually house their spirits within them, Varel. From what Anders told me, they are in the Fade and assist from there. It isn't the same as inviting a spirit into your soul," she replied before continuing her slow progress around the office yet again. Her hip ached, her bones seemed to grind with each step. Finally she stopped and looked back at Nathaniel and Varel, studying them carefully.

Nathaniel was paler than normal and there were dark violet patches under his silver-grey eyes. He looked hollow cheeked, as if he hadn't been eating properly. Underneath the calm exterior was a very angry man, she not only saw that but felt it. Given the chance, he would hunt down his old friend and kill him, she realized and she didn't want that. Anders had destroyed enough and Nathaniel had been correct in reminding her of that. Who was reminding _him_ of that, she wondered before she let her eyes wander over to her seneschal.

Varel was gaunt and his usual proud carriage had shifted, allowing a slight bow of his strong shoulders. He was her source of all information regarding Ferelden politics and the various nobles. He was also the one she turned to during the more difficult legal matters, when the Right of High Justice overwhelmed her. The laws of Ferelden were much more complex than she had first realized and she had made many mistakes in her early days, but under his tutelage she had learned much and depended on him. He was a surrogate father and the weight of his concern for her touched her deeply.

"I want you both to know that I am well. I do not plan on running off to exact revenge. I do not plan on throwing myself off the highest ramparts. More importantly, neither of you are to blame for what happened with Anders, so please stop wearing that burden. I thank you both for everything you have done since this ordeal began," she stopped, wincing at her choice of word. Ordeal was inadequate to describe such an act of selfishness and betrayal, or the deaths at Anders's hands. She took a deep breath.

Both men were standing in front of her desk, having risen the moment she had and she shook her head in exasperation. She spoke softly, but firmly. "Also, as your commander, I am ordering you both to call me Anya when we are in the privacy of my office," she began and then waved a hand for silence when they both started to protest.

"I need friends just as much as I need advisors, perhaps even more so. I trust that you are both capable of behaving in a professional manner when required even if you call me by my given name."

Varel looked at Nathaniel, who returned the look with one of his own. Neither spoke but both looked as if they wanted to.

"As to the bet, I suggest I count to three and you both say my name at once, thereby nullifying the bet," she added and flashed a bright smile, the weight in her heart lifting slightly as both men looked guiltily at each other.

"One. Two. Three."

"Anya," they said in unison.

Anya's laughter took her by surprise.

* * *

><p>Anders waited for the young woman and her two companions to agree to his demand or leave. He did not try to hide the fact that he was listening to their whispered conversation.<p>

"Great. We want to stay away from templar hangouts and he wants us to go in and help a mage escape? The bloody hell we will."

This came from the tall man, obviously related to the woman and his voice was belligerent and angry. There was a resemblance, though not in the color of their hair. His was a dark mahogany and hers was the color of the winter wheat. The resemblance lay in their features, the slant of their noses and the deep green of their eyes, the full lower lip and strong jaw. He would guess that she was older as the man kept deferring to her. And why would they need to stay away from templars? Anders was intrigued by that comment.

_She is a mage. She will be of use._

**I'm not going to use her for anything other than helping Karl escape.**

_Helping Karl is merely the first step, Anders, as I have told you before. But this is not the time for such a discussion. _

She was a pretty woman but there was a grim sadness in her expression, a haunted look and Anders wondered if Anya's eyes held a similar expression. Of course they must, she had every reason to be haunted after what she had witnessed, after what he had done to her. He blinked, turning his thoughts away from Anya. It was not wise to allow his mind to linger there. Justice didn't approve.

"Very well, it seems we have little choice," the woman was saying ungraciously.

"We never do," Anders replied bitterly.

But that was a lie and both he and Justice knew it.

"Meet me at the chantry tomorrow night, at ten bells. That's when Karl will be there."

"How convenient. A mage that needs to be freed and he'll somehow just magically appear in the chantry tomorrow night? You don't think it's a trap?" the woman asked, her tone derisive and cynical.

A ripple of anger coursed through Anders. Justice stirred. Anders drew in a deep breath and held it, willing his emotions under control. "Trap or not, I will rescue Karl. You're a free mage. You should want to help free him; you should want freedom for all mages."

The woman's eyes darkened. "You think because I don't wear the robes of the Circle that I am free? You know nothing of me. You are an apostate. How free are you?"

"I have even less freedom than you," he replied quietly. "But if you want the maps, you'll have to do as I've asked even with the risks."

"I'll be there," she replied and turned to leave. She stopped and turned at the door. "But I will not risk being captured by the templars, even if it means a bloodbath."

Anders nodded. "I understand."

_She need not worry. Neither of you will be captured. I won't allow it._

Anders shivered as the door shut behind the woman called Hawke.

* * *

><p>When he discovered she was not in her office, his heart stammered in his chest and his blood chilled. Maker, don't let him be too late this time. He pounded up the winding stairs, terrified that he would arrive just as she stepped off the battlements. He pushed the door open and stepped onto the parapet. She was standing safely behind one of the low walls and facing west. His relief flooded into him, illuminating the dark corners where his fear lived.<p>

Long streaks of tangerine and violet, entwined like lovers, stretching across the deepening indigo sky, coming out to celebrate as the sun slipped silently into the western waters of the Waking Sea. The air stirred awake, shifting around the turrets, lifting Anya's curls and tossing them playfully. Nathaniel watched quietly from the shadows, before clearing his throat to let her know he was there. An unnecessary gesture. His tainted blood would always give his presence away.

"They say if you watch the sun setting into the water, you will see a green flash just as the last bit of it disappears. I have yet to see it, but I keep looking," Anya said softly as Nathaniel came to stand beside her. "They say it will bring healing to one's heart."

Nathaniel hesitated, not willing to intrude but not about to leave her alone atop the Vigil. She didn't seem melancholy, only a bit wistful. His breathing returned to normal. "Time heals the heart, Commander, just as time heals all wounds," he replied and then wanted to slap himself for the inanity of the remark. She merely looked at him, her eyebrow raised in question. "Anya," he corrected and the name tasted like honey on his tongue. Anya.

"There is a story Orlesian children are told of the earliest times when we were still nomadic barbarians; the Ciraine tribes. Do you wish to hear it?" she asked him, glancing up at him.

He would gladly listen to anything she said if it meant she was once again focusing on living. Afraid that he would somehow give away his feelings, he simply nodded as he stood beside her.

"It was said that the Earth Mother sent her sons out to search for wives, afraid that they would be left alone in their heavenly realms. She bade them hurry lest the heavens tumble to the ground in their absence and so they set off to search for their perfect mate.

"Lunarius, the Moon God, sailed in the darkness of night, alone, for there were yet to be stars in the heavens. He had been alone for untold years and was delighted to be given the task of finding companionship. Alas, he could not make up his mind; he found something to love about each woman he met. He said they were all like rare jewels held to the light, fascinating and beautiful. He traveled the earth in search of the perfect wife, and while he was gone, there was no moon to illuminate the night. Finally, he gathered all the women he loved and carried them into the night sky, scattering them across the heavens and they became the stars. Lunarius would never be alone again. And there was one who captured his heart and held it eternally and he loved her above all the others, Donatella, the brightest star in the night sky.

"But his brother, Helianthus, the Sun God, was ever vain and could find no mortal woman who shone brightly enough to be worthy of his golden rays. He scoured the earth and in his wake came great drought and the lands baked, becoming dry and barren. A shaman of the Ciraine tribes named Marice came to stand before Helianthus in all her glory, a beautiful woman with hair the color of sun-kissed wheat and eyes as green as spring grass. Helianthus was smitten and begged her to come and sit at his right hand, to be his wife.

"She spurned him, telling him that he was cruel in his search and she would not for he had caused much suffering in his wake. Angry, he cast her into the sea. She told him, as she tried desperately to stay above water, that he would always remain alone in the sky, destined to remember only a vision of what he might have had. He realized how much he loved her but it was too late. The last thing he saw before she disappeared underwater was the flash of her brilliant green eyes. He sank into the sea, mourning, only to rise again the next day and sail into the heavens before once more descending into the waters each evening, searching eternally for his one true love. They say it is Marice's eyes one sees in the green flash at sunset."

Her voice was a soft caress against his own loneliness and he stepped closer, basking in the side of Anya he was so rarely allowed to witness. She smiled at him, a warm and heartfelt smile. "We Orlesians were romantics even in our earliest days."

"He was a fool," Nathaniel said, his voice rough.

"Yes, he was."

**A/N**: _A green flash at sunset is an optical phenomenon that I have seen only once. The story of Lunarius and Helianthus is just a made-up story I used to tell my children when they asked about the stars and why they weren't visible during the day. _


	6. Trust

**Trust**

"_What did you expect, Anders? It's called the Deep Roads for a reason. Woe, alas, such darkness weighs upon my shoulders. The secrets of the deep are held in the deep," Sigrun spoke in a low, mournful voice. Anders blinked. He'd never seen her so serious. _

"_It's not called Happiness Highway," she added with a snort. "We don't come here to ask the darkspawn to dance the what-ya-ma-call-it. Hey Anya, what dance are you trying to teach me?" _

_Anya looked up from the map and grinned. "The Royeaux Gavotte," she replied with a snicker._

_Sigrun gave him a hearty slap on the back that stung and sent him staggering forward._

_The Deep Roads were oppressive. And dark. And dank. Anders felt as if the massive granite walls, carved and arched with ancient Dwarven runic symbols, were slowly moving in and if the Wardens stayed too long they would be crushed. He shivered._

"_Relax, Anders. We'll protect you," Anya teased, slipping the map into her hip kit. _

_His heart expanded. He trusted her with his life and in the past few days, he'd discovered that he trusted her with his heart as well. She was strong and honest and opinionated and fun and she treated him like a human being. Like a man and not a mage or a freak. He loved her; he just hadn't found the right moment to tell her. _

"_Nathaniel, if you would please scout ahead? I believe we will be taking a left at the second fork we come to but these maps are a bit old and tattered. Why Weisshaupt believes there are underground tunnels beneath the Waking Sea I'll never understand. The force of the water's pressure would surely cause massive cave-ins."_

"_Hey now, don't impugn Dwarven ingenuity, Commander!" Sigrun said around a grin. _

"_Please, stop talking about cave-ins and water pressure and massive amounts of rock," Anders said, only half in jest. _

_Nathaniel gave him a pitying glance before disappearing into the shadows. Anya moved to stand by Anders and her smile was reassuring and loving. "Don't worry so, Anders. Have you come to harm yet under my command?"_

_He shook his head. "No, fearless leader, no harm either above or under your…command," he said suggestively as some of the tension eased out of his shoulders. She touched the small of his back with her gauntleted hand. The rest of his tension melted into the rock around him._

_The trek was nerve wracking for Anders, filled with sudden, fierce battles and sleepless nights but he took every opportunity to watch Anya, who was in her element. They spent two weeks under the crushing weight of earth and rock. Their last night in the Deep Roads, he led her away from the others, to a small chamber they'd discovered earlier. And there, amidst the corruption and rock and dust and filth, he took her into his arms._

"_I love you. I don't believe I'm saying it but it's true. I love you, Anya."_

_A weight lifted the moment the words were out of his mouth. She laughed softly and pressed a light kiss to his lips. "And it only took the Deep Roads to make you realize it," she teased. _

"_Funny how staring death in the face makes you understand what's important," he agreed, pulling her down to the hard ground where he'd made a bed for them…_

"Anders, are you coming?" Hawke asked loudly. Anders blinked.

And now, here he was in the Deep Roads again. Memories receded. The life he'd led in Amaranthine was gone, destroyed in the same bloodbath that had taken his friend Oghren and the others. He had to try and make his new life work or the chance he'd been given would be for nothing. Given? He had taken it and Justice had helped him. But it was a chance and one he would not waste.

"I just never thought I'd be visiting the Deep Roads again. They aren't exactly a walk in the park," he responded with a grin.

Hawke, fellow mage and newly acquired friend, had already shown him far more trust and compassion than he deserved. She had helped slay the templars who had tried to capture them; a trap that Karl's tranquil state had allowed. When Justice had taken over, she had watched with a horrid fascination and when they'd returned to his clinic she had listened with a sympathetic ear, for all that Carver had been furious. There had been a moment when Anders was certain Hawke's tall, strapping younger brother would kill him outright.

Hawke had finally sent both her brother and the dwarf away and told Anders that she understood that the outcome of some acts, no matter how nobly intended, were impossible to predict. She had reached through the guilt and fear and anger and hurt to tell him she understood. His relief had nearly brought him to tears. There was something in her green eyes that spoke of sorrow and he recognized that she was in need of the same things he was; trust, belief, forgiveness.

Naturally when she asked him to accompany her group into the Deep Roads he had agreed. Going with her seemed such a small thing in the face of her unwavering belief in his goodness. It was a heady feeling to have someone believe in him again.

As he stood at the entrance to the Deep Roads, Anders was determined to prove she was right to have such faith in him. He straightened his shoulders and hefted his pack.

"You coming, Carver?" he asked, stepping into the darkness without hesitation.

* * *

><p>"If you do that it will kill her, Nathaniel."<p>

"Don't say that," Nathaniel hissed, staring at the target. He had missed the center of the target with the last three arrows. He glowered at the target.

"You know it's true. Just think about what you're doing," Sigrun implored.

"I can leave in the middle of the night. By the time she knows I'm gone I'll be at sea. She needs to have this resolved. She's been ordered not to seek retribution by the King. I'm not subject to his orders. I want to do this for her."

Sigrun jumped up into the air, neatly slapping the back of his head. He stumbled forward, his hands coming up reflexively to cover himself from further assault. "Ow! What was that for?" he asked, rubbing the spot with a frown.

"You are dumber than dust," Sigrun said in disgust. "She already had one man throw her trust back in her face and now you want to do the same thing? You're not only dumber than dust, you're as dense as rock," the dwarf replied and gave Nathaniel a very fierce frown, blue eyes mere slits, her tattoos stark against her pale face.

Nathaniel shot and missed the center again. He was pulling right. Tension rode each muscle, twisting and knotting his neck and back. "I have friends in Kirkwall who could help me get in and out without being seen. That bastard deserves to die." He slowed his breathing, pulled and released. The arrow screamed through the air and sank into the center.

"You say you love her but you surfacers sure have an odd way of showing it. First Anders betrays her and now you're about to."

"I would refrain from comparing me with Anders, Sigrun," he warned with an angry snarl. He was doing this for Anya, how could Sigrun not see that?

"Oh please, don't think you scare me, Nate, because you don't. You're just an idiot, plain and simple."

"Please, Sigrun, tell me what you really think," Nathaniel replied dryly.

"If you go through with your scheme you'd better just keep riding, you bloody nughumper, because I'll kill you if you show up here after you completely destroy Annie." Sigrun turned and stomped off.

Nathaniel watched her, rubbing the back of his head. He would never understand women. He'd shared his plan with Sigrun certain that she would fall in league with him and help. Instead she'd smacked him around, verbally and physically, and stalked off in a huff. He wanted to help Anya heal and it seemed the only way to do so was to remove the bastard who'd hurt her. How was that not logical or sensible?

He shook his head. Sigrun was right, of course, but by the Maker, he wanted to be the one to make Anders pay. He wanted to see the expression on Anders's face when his dagger slipped into the mage's chest and turned. He wanted to watch the light go out of Anders's eyes. He wanted Anders to know his best friend had been the one to kill him and that he'd done so to avenge Anya. The only thing Nathaniel wasn't sure of was whether he would use his dagger or his bare hands. There was an appeal to choking the life out of Anders but he doubted Justice would allow that. He would have to be quick and take the man by surprise. A fantasy he relived nightly when sleep refused to come.

Sigrun was right, but she was also wrong. He doubted Anya would even realize he'd left. She was so busy ensuring her Wardens were recovering from the massacre and meeting with the new spirit healer from the tower that she rarely had time for their usual daily chats and when they did chat, her mind seemed elsewhere. She had stopped coming to the practice yard to train on bows, determined to overcome her limp and return to swordplay. The spirit healer was far less confident and tried explaining to Anya that she would suffer through extreme pain for what might be very little improvement.

He yanked off his glove and guard, tossing them carelessly on the ground and then stalked to the target to retrieve his arrows. He needed to let go of the anger. It was gnawing at him; a bitter hunger for vengeance. He needed to but seemed unable to. The anger had kept him company, been his lifeline for the past six months. Six months? It seemed like just days ago that he had found Anya's broken body on the burned and bloody battlefield.

"Nathaniel! You're bleeding!" Anya cried and it was the concern in her voice that broke through his wall of anger.

Looking down, he saw that he was holding the arrowhead gripped tightly in his fist. Blood was flowing freely from the gash in his palm. Anya made a small sound in her throat and pried his fist open. She tossed the arrow aside, shaking her head.

"You must let this anger out. Let it out and set it free or it will kill you."

Nathaniel blinked. "You're a fine one to talk."

"Perhaps that's why I recognize it in you," she responded, bending over and pressing her handkerchief into his palm.

* * *

><p>"Anders, do something. You're a healer," Hawke begged, looking up at the mage. His expression told her that what she feared was reality. There was no healing to be done.<p>

"I won't end up like Wesley, Sister. You must kill me," Carver mumbled, the strength oozing out of his words as he groaned.

Tainted. Maker, it had never occurred to her that he would catch the plague since he hadn't when they fled Lothering. Why now? Why here of all places in time? She couldn't let him die. She wouldn't allow it.

What had seemed a victory in not only finding their way out of the Deep Roads but with a treasure large enough to make whole nations weep with envy was, in fact, just one more failure to keep her promise to her father. Hawke felt the stones pressing in on her, weighing her down, crushing her. Well to the Void with that. She would not allow defeat, not if it meant losing one more person she loved. She would not.

"You aren't going to die, Carver. I won't let you," she reassured, steely and determined.

"I can't cure the taint, Hawke, you know that. But I – I can offer a solution. It's not a cure and it's more than unpleasant, but it's the only thing that might help."

Carver glared past her to the mage towering over them. Whatever Anders was proposing had to be done quickly. She could see Carver's green eyes filming with a grey, viscous substance. She whispered the incantation for a rejuvenating spell and watched as the liquid green light of it flowed around him.

"What, Anders? Tell us quickly!" she urged impatiently.

The trip had been a disaster in so many ways and while the money would help her it was next to meaningless if Carver died. She bent over her brother, brushing his dark hair away from his cold and clammy forehead. "Don't you dare die on me, you stubborn ass," she warned him.

Carver gave a weak laugh. "Still bossing me around even as I'm dying, eh Sister? Guess I can stop worrying about being in your damned shadow at least."

Tears, hot and surprising, welled up. "Shut up, brat," she said thickly, stroking his cheek. Not him too, please Maker, not him too.

"We need to get him up. Those maps of mine showed a Grey Warden outpost down here, not far from where we are. If we can find it and the Wardens then they can give him the Joining and it should stop the spread of the taint. I warn you, it hurts like nothing you've ever experienced and it might not work. If it does, you'll be a Grey Warden, Carver, and there is no escaping from that."

"You did," Hawke said quickly, her mind in turmoil. The life he had mentioned, the brief stories he had told them in their month long journey in the Deep Roads, had seemed horrific. She wasn't sure Carver would like the life of a Grey Warden but if it meant that he survived, so be it. She trusted Anders to decide Carver's fate. She had no other choice.

"Then let's find this outpost," she told him grimly.

"Hawke, are you sure?" Varric asked. He was pale in the dim light.

Was she sure? Of course she wasn't sure. But she wasn't going to kill Carver. She couldn't.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"I'll kill Bartrand when we get back to the surface," Varric growled, stretching down a hand to help Carver stand.

"No you won't. I will," she assured him, slinging an arm around Carver's shoulders and accepting most of his weight.

She staggered and took a step. And then another. Anders cast a healing spell, a river of pale blue and white energy that surrounded Carver as they limped along the roughhewn stone road.

"You got away. If the Grey Wardens are as bad as you claim, Carver can as well."

"No, Margaret. I won't quit. I'm not some delicate mage," Carver ground out between clenched teeth, the words coated with contempt.

"Ah, Junior, nobody said you were a quitter. And you sure as hell aren't delicate."

"Shut it, dwarf," Carver said but the tone was lighter and Hawke thought he might actually be fond of Varric. The thought surprised her and somehow relieved one of the many knots in her stomach. Maybe if he didn't hate Varric, he didn't really hate her as much as he seemed to.

"Tell Mother I'll look after Bethany," Carver whispered as they staggered onward.

"Don't talk like that, Carver. You'll make it. You're too stubborn not to," she admonished.

An hour later, they came across a large band of darkspawn. She and Anders settled Carver on the ground before they began to cast. She used every bit of her mana fueling the largest, most destructive spells she had. The air crackled with thunder and the sweet song of lyrium, darkened by magic and bitterness.

Midway through the fight, they were joined by a tall man in heavy plate and two others who made quick work of the remaining darkspawn. She sank down next to Carver, allowing more magic to dance along his body, seeping in and he nodded once, as close to a thanks as he'd ever received.

"Anders," the man in plate began, his voice as cold as an iced blade and just as sharp. "I thought you were no longer fighting darkspawn." Hawke recognized his accent as Orlesian and wondered why an Orlesian Warden was in the Deep Roads that ran under the Free Marches.

"I'm not here to fight darkspawn. I need your help Stroud. You owe me and I'm calling in the favor."

Hawke stopped listening, busy whispering the incantation for another wave of magic as Carver paled and went limp. Finally she turned to the men, standing and marching forward to poke Stroud in the chest.

"Carver is a damned fine warrior and he is as strong as two men put together. If he lives he'll make a good Warden. If he doesn't you have no worries, do you? Just do it," she demanded.

The man's brown eyes narrowed and then he gave a curt nod to the other two men with him. "But consider us even, Anders. And know this. We don't forget. We _won't_ forget."

"And I can't forget," Anders muttered. "Now take him and let us be on our way."

Hawke felt a stirring of unease. It was obvious to even the most obtuse person that the history between the two men was bitter, that there was more to Anders and his story than he'd bothered to tell her. This, however, was not the place to question him.

"Sister, tell Mother I'll write when I can."

Hawke nodded, clenching her jaws to avoid the wail that wanted to escape.

"And for Maker's sake watch out for Anders. He's trouble," Carver whispered as he embraced her. She started to protest but he was already being taken by the men.

She watched until the group carrying her brother away disappeared before turning to Varric. "Let's get out of here. We have a date with your brother."

* * *

><p>"Varel, you know Nathaniel. How can I help him let go of his anger?" Anya asked, standing at her window and watching as Nathaniel trained the latest recruits how to fight in close quarters.<p>

"I'm not sure you can, Commander."

Anya turned and glared at her seneschal until he corrected himself. "Anya."

"I thought I would be angry forever but seeing him last week, so angry that he didn't even know he'd cut his palm open did something to my anger. Made it disappear? I don't know what happened to it, I just know it's gone."

Varel nodded, hands clasped behind his back as he watched the group out in the practice yard. His eyes seemed to be focused on Nathaniel as if he was considering the problem.

She smiled up at her seneschal. "I imagine you are delighted to see the last of my bad moods," she added.

"As you say," he replied dryly.

Anya laughed and if she thought the man would stand for it, she would hug him. He had made her life at Vigil's Keep tolerable in those first few days and continued to do so. Her confidant, her friend, her counselor, one of the few people she trusted implicitly. She hadn't stopped trusting him even after Anders. In fact, she hadn't stopped trusting Sigrun or Nathaniel either.

Her eyes tracked back to Nathaniel and she watched the lithe grace of his movements as he lunged forward, daggers drawn and then pirouetted out of the way of Warden Dobbins awkward swing. The young warden slipped and pitched forward, landing with a bone-jarring clatter of heavy armor. Nathaniel smirked and reached down a hand to help the man up.

He too was her confident and friend and he had given her the courage to believe in herself again. Did he even understand how much he had helped her? Did he have any idea how close she had come to killing herself that day on the battlements? Had she even bothered to tell him?

"Varel, I want you to arrange for a light supper for two to be brought to my office and then ask Nathaniel to join me. Perhaps if he sees that I'm no longer angry, he will be able to let go of his anger as well."

"It might help if you desist with the notion that breaking your hip, leg and ankle will somehow make you walk without a limp."

She was stung by the sharp tone. "I fail to see what that has to do with anything," she said coolly.

"I believe you understand quite well, Commander...Anya. Until you accept your limitations, he will see it as one more thing Anders is guilty of and it will just continue to feed that anger. Howes are implacable enemies, as I believe you discovered upon your arrival. Don't allow him to continue harboring the hate and anger."

"I am a warrior, not an archer, Varel. It's all I've ever wanted to be and all I've ever been. Do I give this victory to Anders as well?" Anya asked, turning to meet Varel's direct gaze. She saw the answer in the softening of his features.

"An archer _is_ a warrior but one who uses a different weapon. Be the best damned archer in Ferelden. Practice every day, have Nathaniel help you. He's the best. Beat him; show him that you believe in yourself.

"You should also practice with your dagger because enemies will break through and get close. Use a pair of daggers if that is your wish but your days of swordplay are over, Anya, and you need to accept that."

Tears formed, pooled, slid silently down, silver streaks of acceptance. It was not what she wanted to hear but it was what she needed to hear. In her heart she knew he was right and that she had sought his counsel knowing he would be honest.

She turned her gaze back to the window, to watch as Nathaniel shook his head and tossed a grim dismissal at the group. He reached down and picked up his bow and gave it a loving examination before slinging it over his shoulder and striding toward the keep. He needed to let go of his anger and she needed to let go of who she had once been.

"I wish you weren't so against marriage, Varel. I believe I would propose to you otherwise," she said softly and risked his wrath and embarrassment, settling a rather damp kiss on his cheek.

An hour later, clean and in his usual well oiled dark leathers, Nathaniel entered her office. "You wanted to see me, Commander?"

"I'm sorry. There is nobody here by that name. I do believe that Anya would like to share a meal with Nathaniel and discuss a number of things."

A dull flush and a shake of his head met her words. "Anya," he replied and came to join her at the small table. A bottle of wine, a roasted chicken and soft rolls were placed in the center of the table. Nathaniel held her chair for her and when she was seated he moved around to sit across from her.

"Are you trying to soften me up for a favor or because you have something really bad to tell me?" he asked as he poured the wine.

Anya laughed. "I'm hurt that you would think such a thing, Nathaniel."

He raised a brow at her, that faint curl to his lip giving him away. "So, which is it?"

"I need you to teach me how to be the best archer in Ferelden. I have recently come to understand that breaking my bones to try and improve my abilities will only delay the inevitable. I think it's time I l truly put the swords away and learned archery from the master. For reasons only he knows, Varel claims you are that master."

Nathaniel smiled softly. It was an oddly tender smile and Anya felt a curious flutter in her stomach.

"If it pleases you, we can start tomorrow morning. And this time, I hope you take it seriously."

"Yes, yes, I promise if you promise not to be a very grim and angry teacher."

Nathaniel's grey eyes met hers squarely. "I can't promise that I won't get angry with you if I see you aren't taking it seriously, but I promise not to be grim or angry until then."

Anya laughed at that. "Fair enough."

They ate in silence for several moments and when she was sure he was truly relaxed, she reached across the table and placed her hand over his, squeezing gently. "I have not thanked you, Nathaniel. You said you would have enough faith for the two of us and so you did. You have no idea how much it helped me through the darkest times."

He was silent, his adam's apple bobbing several times. Then he smiled again. Turning his palm up, he wrapped his strong fingers around hers and squeezed her hand in reply.


	7. Gifts

**Gifts**

Hawke's hand hesitated and she let it drop to her side. The book in her other hand suddenly felt heavy and cumbersome and she wasn't sure why she had thought Fenris might appreciate it. He seemed unable to appreciate anything other than his own bitterness. Would he see the tome for what it was – a gift between friends, a peace offering – or would he see it as a ploy to buy his friendship? She raised her hand again and rapped sharply on the door.

Fenris was still in his armor and not for the first time Hawke wondered if he slept in it or if he slept at all. He was sure that Danarius was coming for him and Fenris was determined to be waiting. Did he sleep with his greatsword beside him? She wouldn't doubt it.

"Yes, Hawke, what is it?"

"Well, that's not exactly the greeting I was hoping for. May I come in?" She gave him a wry smile as she stepped into the room.

"Yes, of course. You should not wander the streets at night, not on your own."

"You aren't going to lecture me again, are you?"

She watched as the smile crept unwillingly across his lips, a rare sight but one that softened the perpetual lines and creases of his usual frown. "Would it do me any good?"

"No, as you should know by now. I do admire your tenacity, though."

A brief bark of laughter, followed by a broad sweep of his arm, let Hawke know she was welcome. As soon as they were seated, she leaned over and handed him the book. "I found this in the market recently and thought of you. It's about Shartan."

Fenris stared down at the book and turned it over, flipped through the pages and then looked at her with a pained expression on his face. Hawke felt her stomach plummet. They were going to have an argument. The air was already charged with undercurrents she was never quite sure she understood.

"Slaves aren't allowed to read. I've never learned how."

"You haven't been a slave for a number of years, Fenris. You give Danarius far more power over you than you should."

It was the wrong thing to say and the wrong tone of voice to use and Hawke realized her mistake immediately. It was hard not to when she saw the warmth in Fenris's eyes frost over in seconds, from warm forest moss to cold emerald chips. She refused to lower her eyes under his glare.

"Is that all? Or is there more you feel the need to say?"

"You are still a slave for all that you claim to be free," she said in a kinder voice.

"You've always been free, Hawke. What can you possibly know of slavery?" he asked in a hard angry voice; rough and deep and textured by a winter's snowfall.

Something in Hawke snapped awake, some underlying anger she rarely gave voice to invaded her reasoning mind. "That you even ask such a question shows how narrow your vision is, Fenris. There are other types of slavery but your bitterness makes it impossible for you to see beyond your own misery!"

"_Festis bei umo canavarum_!" he exclaimed, flinging himself out of his chair to pace the room in agitated strides.

"I will not be the death of you! I want to be your light, you idiot," she retorted with a low hum of anger and stormed out of the ruined mansion he lived in, slamming the door behind her.

How could he possibly see her existence as anything other than a form of slavery? Had she not spent her entire life hiding from the templars, never free to go where she wanted, to do as she pleased? Had she not spent most of her adult life helping her father protect the family? Was she not still entombed in Kirkwall for that very reason?

Anders was a slave to Justice's need for vengeance. Merrill was a slave to discovering the lost history of the elves and saving her clan; a clan that no longer trusted her or cared about her. Varric was a slave to a noble house that no longer existed; trying to right the terrible wrongs his brother had committed. They all had some form of prison they were bound to. How could he not see that? Would he forever remain a slave in his heart? Was he blind, selfish or just incapable of empathy? She didn't want to believe any of those choices. Somewhere inside the man lurked a frightened and hurt little boy. Until he acknowledged that child he would never be completely free.

Her anger carried her along to her house and she rushed upstairs before her mother could see her tears. She wasn't hurt, she was angry and, Maker's breath, she was tired of trying to offer her heart to him only to have him heave it back at her without any regard at all.

Pacing her room brought her little relief and she finally went back down the stairs. Her mother was in her room and Bodahn was settling Sandal for the night. The mansion was still a foreign place to Margaret, its creaks and groans unsettling. It felt even less like home than Gamlen's hovel. She felt stifled in it; felt the high ceilings and thick walls were a prison, not a home.

"Come on, Reynard," she called to the brindled mabari curled up in front of the fireplace. "Time for a walk."

When she returned an hour later, Anders was standing outside the mansion, waiting for her.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anya stared down at the package Nathaniel had placed on her lap. It was wrapped in a festive cotton print but the shape was unmistakable. She looked up at Nathaniel and saw his slow smile take shape. She felt herself smiling in return.

"As your commander I should not accept gifts from you, Nathaniel."

"And as my friend?" he asked, his voice a warm wind.

"I accept with pleasure, of course."

She unwrapped the package and clapped her hands in delight. It was a bow, which was not a surprise at all, but its beauty and workmanship took her breath away. She ran a finger along the curving lower limb.

"Ironbark?" she asked, frowning. It didn't really feel like ironbark but there was something familiar about the blonde wood. She glanced up at Nathaniel and caught him in an unguarded moment. He was admiring something…the bow? Her delight in the gift? She wasn't sure but she felt that wayward flutter in her stomach again and quickly lowered her eyes.

"Do you remember finding the heartwood in the Wending Wood? You didn't know what to do with it so you gave it to me. I held on to it because I wasn't sure what to do with it either but Master Wade was delighted to shape it into a bow and now that you've improved, I thought…" Nathaniel trailed off. Had the light been brighter she might have suspected he was blushing, so great had his enthusiasm been in explaining the origins of her gift. She had never heard him rattle on like a happy child, not in all the time she had known him.

Anya carefully set the bow aside and stood. She placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled up at him, letting him see the emotions that she so often hid. She was touched by his gesture. The sorrow that had held her in its strangling grasp was easing with each day. She hoped he saw that in her smile; hoped he felt it in his heart. It was like waking from a long, dark dream and she wanted him to know that he was like the warmth of spring sunshine on her face after a hard winter.

"I could not have asked for a better gift, my teacher," she whispered.

His face closed and settled into its customary neutral expression. "I'm glad you like it, Anya."

Although he had used her name it was formal somehow, his voice cool and aloof. Had she been too forward? She dropped her hand quickly and stepped back, the heat of a blush seeping into her skin.

"I thank you. Were it not dark outside, I would go immediately and try it out. It's quite lovely, Nathaniel."

And in the space of a few breaths, she had somehow ruined their moment of shared joy and she had no idea why. She bent and picked up the bow again, testing its weight and grip. It was perfect, as if the maker had known her strengths and weaknesses in designing the bow. The grip was small, her hand fitting snugly around the smooth leather. The limbs were graceful curves and the wood along the limbs and belly gleamed from the beeswax that had been applied in loving layers.

But the delight in the gift was diminished by her concern and confusion over what she had done to make him withdraw. Would they always have the specter of Anders between them? She didn't know how to tell him that her hurt and anger, her grief over Anders's betrayal grew less important with each day. She didn't know how to explain that her heart felt lighter in his company, that she felt stronger and happier when he stood beside her. She was afraid to tell him, afraid to let herself be so vulnerable again. So she remained silent, standing in her office, admiring her bow and wishing she was as brave as the others believed her to be.

A knock broke the uneasy silence. She glanced at Nathaniel, feeling a need to apologize. He shook his head with a wry, almost relieved smile on his face. "Never a quiet moment, is there?"

"So it would seem."

She opened the door to a very grim Varel, who held three leather pouches in his hand. Two of them were Grey Warden messenger pouches, if she wasn't mistaken. Her heart skipped a beat and then another. No doubt the First Warden's reprimand. It had certainly taken long enough to arrive. The other she remembered from her six years in Celene's court. The Imperial Courier pouch. Alarm rested in her chest like a heavy hand. She took them and sat down at her desk, her legs feeling oddly weak.

None of the pouches would contain good news, she felt sure. She massaged her temples, elbows resting on her desk. "You two stop towering over me, ready to catch the crazy woman when she breaks again. Sit down," she instructed sharply. She softened her voice and a brief smile flickered across her face. "Please."

Anya reached for the pouch from Weisshaupt, sealed with the official mark of the Weisshaupt Fortress. She had no doubt that there would be an official reprimand inside, as well as an order not to pursue justice in regard to Anders. Justice. There was a word that bit with the savage edge of a well-honed sword. Removing her small quill-knife, she broke the seal and opened the pouch, peering cautiously at the contents inside. There were two folded letters.

She stared at the seal on the first letter; two golden griffons displayed addorsed, wings elevated, maintaining a branch fesswise between them on a sable background. The official seal of the First Warden and the official reprimand, Anya thought. Her mouth was dry with the fear that it would contain orders demanding her resignation or risk being ostracized. She set it aside and picked up the second letter.

A splotch of red wax bearing the image of a wolf rampant, the personal seal of the First Warden, designed by the original First Warden. She broke the seal and forced herself to read, holding it in shaking hands.

_Annie,_

_I know you blame yourself and that must stop. You had no way of knowing what would happen with that Fade spirit. You must rise above it and help your Wardens heal from this terrible tragedy. I say this kindly, my dear friend, but firmly. _

_I have been in contact with the other Commanders. Orders have been issued that there will be no retaliation against a fellow Warden. If people believe him dead and believe that the deaths were the work of the darkspawn it is for the best as no shame will be brought to the Order. I will have Stroud assign men to watch Anders but they will not be Wardens. Their taint could frighten Anders away. These men will have orders to kill Anders should he pose a danger to the populace of Kirkwall. For now we can only watch. _

_You must avoid any appearance of impropriety, Anya. You represent a bold new direction for Wardens as a commander who is also a noble. We cannot have another controversy such as we had with Sophia Dryden. Remember that and let it guide your decisions._

_I remain your most faithful friend and brother,_

_Magnus_

She set the letter aside and closed her eyes, striving to compose herself. Of course he would be most concerned for the Order. The new Warden Commander of Val Royeaux was also a noble, seated on Celene's Imperial Council. Most of the crowned heads of Thedas were watching these developments closely. If both Anya and Gerard Flaneur demonstrated a devotion to their duties as both Warden and noble, more would follow, ensuring the relevancy of the Wardens even during periods of peace.

Setting the private letter aside, she broke the seal of the official office of the First Warden.

_Commander Anya Caron  
>Warden Commander of the Grey of Ferelden<br>Arlessa of Amaranthine  
><em>

_Commander Anya,_

_It is with a heavy heart that this office offers condolences on the recent loss of four fine Wardens. Their names have been entered into the Roster of the Dead and a memorial held for these brave souls. _

_I also wish to convey my appreciation for the journals and the blood obtained from the death of the Architect. Our experts have already begun the process of deciphering the journals. The blood, as well as the samples and journals of Senior Warden Avernus, should prove invaluable in our research into the nature of the darkspawn. _

_I ask that you take a cadre of men and return to the Architect's lair and complete another sweep of the area. We are in need of additional information. We need to know how many sentient darkspawn there are. Do this at your earliest convenience._

_In peace, vigilance._

_Magnus Iverson  
>First Warden<br>Weisshaupt Fortress_

She was shocked that there was nothing in the way of a reprimand; no angry tirade about her conduct. Disappointment crowded in to push the shock away but curiously, no sense of relief accompanied it. She should have had her command revoked, she should have been sent to one of the small outposts in the Anderfels to serve out the rest of her days. Her decisions had resulted in a monster set loose in Thedas and Wardens under her command dying. The months seemed to roll back and her pain and guilt was like a fresh wound. Anya pushed against the feelings, resenting their presence.

She gave Nathaniel the official letter and then reached for the diplomatic pouch from the Imperial Court of Her Royal Highness, Empress Celene the First. Celene's personal scent, verbena and honeysuckle with a bite of lemon to it, so much like the woman herself, assaulted Anya's nose. She withdrew the letter bearing Celene's personal seal; two peacocks, rising rousant. At least whatever Celene wished of her was of a personal nature.

_My dear cousin,_

_I must ask you to travel to Jader and meet with my private attaché. There are a great many at court determined to take advantage of Ferelden's weakened state. They press for reclamation of lands lost during the rebellion. I want you to be the personal liaison between King Alistair and myself. You are in the unique position of having influence with both of us._

_Alain Fremont will be in Jader for several weeks and I urge you to leave immediately. We must head off another war, we must show our determination to bring about a golden age in our country, not conquer those who are weaker than ourselves._

_I remain your affectionate and doting cousin,_

_Celene _

She sighed and set the letter aside. She should have seen that coming. The nobles and their Grand Game and their need for more and more territory to claim as their own would see Ferelden as an easy target and she was very clearly in the middle.

Finally she opened the third pouch, breaking the plain Warden seal; a lone griffon, wings unfurled.

_My sister,_

_I have in my possession a new recruit who should be of great use to you. I haven't the time to chisel away the large chip on his shoulder but he is Fereldan and I believe you will find him a capable man. I ask that you send someone to collect him immediately. I don't dare send him to you unaccompanied because I don't trust him not to desert. Your representative can find us in the Deep Roads outpost. _

_The other issue is under observation by friends who inform me that other eyes watch him as well. Friends of yours?_

_If you come to collect Carver Hawke yourself, which I suspect you might, I will look forward to a night spent catching up. I have a rare bottle of fine Nevarran whiskey waiting for such an event._

_I remain your brother,_

_Stroud_

Anya didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She passed all the documents to Nathaniel without saying a word and stood, reaching for her cane. "I need a walk. You know where to find me if you wish to talk."

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Hawke, I – I had to come and see you. My contacts in the mage underground told me about a plot by a group of templars to force the Rite of Tranquility on every mage in Kirkwall."

He hadn't intended to tell her that so abruptly but there was something about the way she looked at him that made his common sense desert him. She cared about him. She looked at him with eyes that didn't condemn, didn't see him as a monster. She was like a healing balm and he felt centered in her presence, more in control. Justice didn't trust her but even the spirit understood the need for help.

"Slow down, Anders. Come inside and tell me what you mean."

He followed her into the mansion, grateful to be away from the filth and stench of Darktown. Her mansion was a haven; cheerful and soothing in the same way the Vigil had been to him. It was a home, made warm by Hawke's presence. He settled on a chair pulled close to the fire. Reynard huffed and snuffled before curling up at his feet, chin resting on his paws. A scene out of a painting, Anders thought. Man, woman and dog settling in to their home for the evening.

"Anders, tell me about this plot," Hawke encouraged.

The story flowed out of him, a river whose dam had broken. He told her about his work with the mage underground, about the notes he had discovered in the labyrinth under the Gallows, about Ser Alrik and his Tranquil Solution, as he called it. The entire time he rambled on, Hawke watched him with that calm acceptance that he couldn't understand but didn't want to lose.

"I know it sounds like a crazy dream but it's true, Hawke. I can't walk away from this, it's too important and I need your help. I can't do it on my own."

A burden shifted, lightened as she nodded thoughtfully. "We'll need to be careful who we bring with us. I don't want them to be put in an awkward position and if we're caught we'll be executed on the spot. Do you think just Reynard and you and I can do this?"

"I think so, if we're careful. I can't – I don't know how to thank you, Hawke. You're always there for me, you never criticize or disapprove, you just accept that what I say is important. Thank you," Anders said, slightly embarrassed by the intensity of his thanks. He stiffened, afraid that he would yet drive her off with his emotional outbursts.

"The plight of the mages concerns me as well, Anders, of course I want to know the truth about this plot. But you have to promise me you'll be careful from now on. Your name is becoming known and you don't want that. Protection because of my status will only go so far."

Anders felt a prickle of unease, a current of emotion trembled through him. Justice was there, reminding him to guard his tongue and mind his feelings. Anders took a deep breath, trying to calm his surging emotions. The prickling unease subsided and Anders felt a brief flare of triumph. Hawke's faith in him, her willingness to help him had given him the strength he'd needed to keep control, to be the dominant one. He knew it wouldn't last, that Justice was still there, ready to wrest control with the slightest provocation but Anders felt his confidence growing.

"You're a gift, Hawke. A rare and treasured gift," Anders said softly as he stood up.

Hawke laughed and there was a bitter edge to it that pulled at Anders's heart. "What happened with Bethany and Carver wasn't your fault, Hawke. You're a good woman who's given up everything of herself to do right by her family."

He closed his eyes against the sudden image of Anya that rose in his mind. Laughing, arms stretched wide as she spun around and around in the meadow under a bright blue sky. One of their many picnics as she explored her Arling. And then the image shifted, blurred and became Anya, broken and bloody, lying on the ground, barely breathing. A sharp stab of pain in his head, a ragged breath that would be a sob if he wasn't careful. He blinked and refocused on the woman in front of him whose large green eyes were filled with compassion and concern. A warning from Justice. Anders licked dry lips.

"Are you alright, Anders?" Hawke asked, placing a hand lightly on his arm.

He swallowed and nodded, not trusting his voice.

_A reminder that it is dangerous to become close to anyone, Anders. A gift is never given without wanting something in return._

Anders wondered if that was true of everyone or just him. He had taken every gift Anya had given him and thrown them all back at her, doing the one thing she had ordered him not to; breaking her heart, and his, in the process.

Would he do the same to Margaret Hawke?

**~~~oOo~~~**

Nathaniel was still angry with himself when he left the office in search of Anya. He couldn't believe how close he had come to sweeping her into his arms and kissing her when she'd looked up with such soft eyes to thank him for the bow. He had always taken pride in his ability to wait, to be patient and reserved, yet he'd prattled on about the gift like a schoolboy and nearly ruined their fragile relationship by kissing her. It had taken every ounce of his willpower to pull back in those moments. Maker, don't let me have spoiled our friendship, he prayed as he went in search of her.

She was on the battlements, of course. It was the only place she went when she was upset. He watched her quietly, allowing her time to adjust to his presence. She turned, her wry smile pale in the darkness.

"I am not contemplating jumping, Nathaniel. There is no need to worry."

Nathaniel moved closer, unable to return her smile, afraid of losing control of his emotions again. "I'm not concerned about that. I'm more concerned about your plans."

"My plans? Why to be in three places at once, of course," she said with a soft laugh.

"So you plan to go to Kirkwall?"

"Yes, of course. How can I not?"

"He's dangerous, Anya. Why would you put yourself at risk?"

"If I am ever to be completely healed, I need to do this, Nathaniel, whether I see him or not."

Panic and anger winged along his nerves, but hope stirred in his blood. She wanted to be completely healed and if she was completely healed perhaps there was a chance that she would finally see him as more than a friend. He let his emotions calm before speaking.

"So you'll take the new recruit with you to Jader?"

Anya shook her head. "No, he'll return to Vigil's Keep. From the sound of it he'll need training. I look to my Second for that."

Nathaniel's hope flickered and winked out. Of course it made sense that he would stay and organize the trip to the Architect's lair and see to the day to day running of both the Wardens and the Vigil but he was disappointed, deeply so. "Your friend Stroud seems to worry that this Carver Hawke will desert. Aren't you afraid of the same thing?"

"He would be a fool to desert with a Warden escorting him, don't you think?"

"Ah, so you're bringing a Warden with you. Sigrun?"

"No, I think she's the logical choice to head the Architect team. She was with us, she knows that area quite well and she knows what to look for."

"I hope you don't mean to take one of the newer recruits, they're barely able to wipe their own noses. Jamie might do alright, or even Sarhal, but the others are much too raw for the task. I recommend Jamie, he's smart and strong. Sarhal is still a bit unsure of herself," Nathaniel recommended, striving for the cool, measured tones of reason. His heart was anything but cool or measured. Had she no idea what it would do to him if he lost her now?

He watched as she limped forward, coming to stand in front of him. He saw in her the strength and courage of his commander but also a teasing glint in her blue eyes. There was something deeper there as well, something that was soft and gentle and full of longing. His heart sped up and he felt a warmth flood into him.

"Don't be silly, Nathaniel. The only person I trust to accompany me is my Second."

So saying, she turned to leave but stopped, once more turning to face him. "We have a saying in Orlais. A broken heart is only truly mended when we open it up to others again. I think I finally understand its meaning."

Nathaniel stared at her departing figure, a rare smile gracing his austere features.


	8. A Leap of Faith

**A/N**: _My deepest thanks to Enaid Aderyn for sharing her brilliance and creativity. She gave shape and direction to this chapter. Her idea gave flight to my fingers. You are a rare and wondrous gift, Enaid.  
><em>

**A Leap of Faith**

They departed two days later, having both been too busy preparing for the journey to exchange more than a half dozen words in passing. Anya was relieved. She had revealed far too much that evening on the battlements and would have preferred Nathaniel not remember it. Of course that was like asking the sun not to remember its path across the sky. Nathaniel noticed everything and forgot nothing.

The night before they departed was stormy. Lightning flashed and thunder roared overhead, the wind a high thin wail of torment against the granite face of the Vigil. Anya found sleep impossible and after several hours of tossing and turning, she rose and slipped into her tunic and leggings, leaving her room in search of food.

Sigrun sat at the kitchen table, enjoying a large piece of peach cobbler. She looked up and grinned around a mouthful. "Hey, Anya! I couldn't sleep and I see you couldn't either. Pull up a seat and have a piece of cobbler. It's delicious."

Once Anya was seated and eating her way through a much smaller helping, Sigrun said, "So, you and Nathaniel, traveling together. Just what the two of you need."

"It isn't what you think," Anya began, pushing the remaining bit of cobbler around her plate. "If this Hawke fellow really does have a large chip on his shoulder then Nathaniel is the wisest choice to escort him back to the Vigil."

Snorting, Sigrun shook her head. "Tell yourself that if it makes you happy, boss, but I see the lay of the land."

Heat from a wayward blush crept up Anya's neck to settle in her cheeks. Maker, was she making a fool of herself again? She frowned, wondering if Nathaniel was put off by the thought and her blush deepened. She needed to be more circumspect, pull back into herself. She wasn't ready to trust herself that far, wasn't ready to trust anyone else with her heart.

"Ah, come on Annie, just admit it. You have feelings for Nate."

Her spoon clattered onto her dish. How could she possibly have feelings for Nathaniel when she had been devastated by Anders? When her heart had been yanked out of her chest and crushed in his careless grasp? Had she not truly loved Anders? Is that why she found herself falling in love with Nathaniel? Love? The word echoed and danced around her thoughts and with the word came another. Fear. Would Nathaniel break her heart if she offered it to him? "Don't be silly, Sigrun. He is my friend and my Second, nothing more."

Another snort from Sigrun, this time complete with eye rolling. Her face settled into serious lines and she leaned forward, her voice warm and earnest. "Don't waste another minute, Annie. Life is short, and you ought to know that better than most. Stop being an idiot. Ancestor's tits, just let go and kiss him. Just jump in with both feet and do it."

Anya shook her head and made her way back to her room. Perhaps on the voyage she would feel less constrained, away from the memories and the constant watchful eyes of her Wardens. Sleep caught her by surprise as she lay in bed and listened to the howling winds and the steady drumbeat of rain lashing the windows.

In the morning everything was newly scrubbed, the sky washed clean of the grey clouds, leaving behind a dazzling blue expanse. The air was crisp and perfumed. Nathaniel was already astride his grey charger. Anya gave final instructions to both Varel and Sigrun then gave them each a hug, causing Varel to squirm slightly at the attention.

"Remember, Annie. Just let go and jump," Sigrun said in a whisper and then Varel was helping her mount.

Nathaniel was silent as they galloped along the rutted road and Anya was grateful. Her mind was preoccupied and every time she thought about the three day journey from Amaranthine to Kirkwall, her stomach jumped and fluttered and her mouth went dry. Perhaps, she told herself, it would be easier to approach him once they were at sea.

The Prydwyn, a square-rigged caravel, was built for quick cargo runs and not for passengers. Any hope of a quiet voyage that would allow time with Nathaniel was quashed the moment Captain Lewin informed her that she would be sharing a cabin with a young mother and the woman's three year old daughter.

Anya swallowed her disappointment and if Nathaniel felt any frustration at the arrangements, he didn't remark upon it. With a quick nod, he went in search of the Sailing Master's cabin, where he would bunk for the duration of the trip. As if, Anya thought sourly, he couldn't wait to be out of her company.

The young mother was round and heavy with her second child. She was a young woman traveling to reunite with her husband in Kirkwall. Caralea, as it turned out, was not a sailor. She was struck low by seasickness, moaning piteously as she lay on her bunk, a bucket nearby. Shara, a very lively three years old, had a pair of sea legs any sailor would envy and Anya found herself playing the role of nursemaid for the duration of the journey. She enjoyed Shara, who had a wonderful wide-eyed view of the world, reducing it to its simplest form. Nathaniel appeared to be terrified of the young girl and Anya saw him only twice over the next two days, both times in deep discussion with Osborne, the Sailing Master. He barely acknowledged her presence. Her frustration only served to add to her nervousness and a fine, thin edge of anger.

Mid morning on the third day, a young boy came to fetch her. "Cap'n says ta bring yer spyglass, Mistress. We're nearin' Kirkwall."

"You go ahead, Anya and leave Shara with me. You've been more than kind to us," Caralea instructed, struggling to sit up.

Shara, busy playing with a cornhusk doll, didn't look up as Anya grabbed up her spyglass and made her way up the ladder. Trying not to feel guilty about leaving her young charge behind, Anya made her way up to the quarter deck. Nathaniel was standing next to Captain Lewin and they were laughing at something the third man, Osborne, was saying. The minute she arrived, Nathaniel's face returned to its customary neutral expression. Maker, he was the most infuriating man she'd ever met.

"Good morning, Commander Anya. We're coming into view of Kirkwall and I thought you'd like a look."

Bracing herself against the low railing that ran along the deck, Anya peered into the haze and saw a faint darkness rising out of the water. She put her spyglass up to her eye and black stone cliffs came into sharp relief.

"If you look carefully you'll see the Old Gods carved into the edifice, though they're mostly worn away now."

He was right; the carvings were barely discernable, eroded through the ages by the relentless assault of wind and rain.

"Yes, I see the carvings. The cliffs are like a great black wall, aren't they?" she asked and for the first time since boarding the ship, Anya felt excitement tingling along her nerves. The wind was fresh and salty, the day hazy and cool. It was a day made for exploring new surroundings and perhaps sharing her excitement with her handsome but rather dour Second.

"Aye, Commander. That's how Kirkwall came to be named. In another few minutes you'll be able to see the Twins."

"The twins?" she asked, puzzled and mildly embarrassed by her lack of knowledge. She should have studied up on the city before they left Amaranthine.

Nathaniel came to stand beside her. "The Twins are massive bronze statues. They hold part of the chain net that stretches between them and that lighthouse," he answered pointing south across an expanse of water. Anya raised her glass once more, scanning for the lighthouse.

"A chain stretching across the Waking Sea? That's very ambitious and difficult to imagine."

"Aye, the fortunes of Kirkwall rest on the tariffs and taxes from those chains. They're how the city got its nickname, The City of Chains."

"I – I thought that name was in reference to it being the center of the slave trade," Anya admitted with an embarrassed smile.

"Oy, yer' not the first, mistress," Osborne said with a chuckle. "Ye'll see that part of Kirkwall soon enough."

An hour later they passed between the towering bronze twins, statues that made Anya feel a deep sorrow, as if she was witnessing tormented souls. As they entered the boat channel, she looked up at the looming granite walls on either side, thinking how dispirited and hopeless slaves must have felt at their first introduction to the city.

The second introduction was no less intimidating. The caravel, because it sat light and shallow in the water, was able to anchor at the main docks. As they neared their destination she became aware of the soaring grey stone buildings and an abundance of iron gates and fences.

"Maker, it looks as if we are docking at a prison," Anya muttered.

"Aye, Commander, just so. Now, I'd best get to work. Osborne, with me," Captain Lewin said and left Anya and Nathaniel standing alone, watching the city slowly come into focus.

"What did he mean?"

"This area is called the Gallows. It was a prison. Everything about its construction was meant to remind the slaves that they were powerless. It's where the Circle of Magi is housed now, and the templar barracks. The Knight Commander of Kirkwall holds much more political clout than the Viscount. Templars rule Kirkwall and everyone knows it."

"Why would Anders come to such a place?" she murmured aloud and then wished she could retract the words immediately as Nathaniel, standing close enough that she could feel his arm against hers, stiffened and seemed to physically and mentally withdraw.

"A question you will no doubt ask him when you see him," he said coldly. "If you'll excuse me, I need to prepare for debarkation.

Mentally scolding herself, Anya made her unsteady way back to her cabin. Caralea and Shara were packed and ready to make their way on deck. The young woman gave Anya a warm hug. "If you've a need for anything while you're here, find Eustis Barritt. That's my man. He's got a business in Hightown. I owe you for everything you've done, Anya. Thank you."

As they made their way ashore, Anya was almost sorry she hadn't brought her cane. Nathaniel's long strides made it necessary for her to give a half hop every fourth step just to keep up. She had refused to bring her cane with her because, in her mind, it was time she learned how to manage without it and stand on her own two feet. It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself. She was better than that. She was Anya Caron, daughter of Enrique Caron, the _Chevalier Dirigeant_, sister to Raoul Caron, the Grand Master of the Sword, Empress Celene's personal guard. She was Commander of the Grey of Ferelden, for Maker's sake, not some sniveling, simpering maiden. And yet she had been unable to find the right words to breach the unexpected walls Nathaniel had erected.

The courtyard of the gallows was even more intimidating than the stark stone edifices surrounding it. Bronze statues and mosaics of tortured souls and grim faced guards were everywhere, a menacing and bleak reminder to any and all who entered Kirkwall. Anya shivered, pulling her cloak tighter. The sooner they left the area the happier she would be. She had never seen so many templars in one place, save for the Grand Cathedral of the Divine in Val Royeaux.

"Oy! Be yer Commander Anya?" a young boy asked, tugging at her cloak.

Freckle faced and cheery, the young boy grinned up at her. "If yer be, I have a message fer ye."

"I am; thank you." Anya dug in her hip pack for some silver pieces and gave them to the lad before he scampered off, no doubt happy to be away from the grim place.

The message, emblazoned with the Warden seal, was from Stroud.

_Annie,_

_Duty calls us to the Wounded Coast. There are reports of a darkspawn nest and a possible entrance to the Deep Roads. Follow this map and meet us there. Cheer up sister. I've brought the whiskey with me._

_Stroud_

She read the note and passed it and the map to Nathaniel.

"Where is the Wounded Coast?" she asked quietly, trying to mask her disappointment.

Nathaniel's year in Kirkwall proved invaluable. He found a stable and hired two rounceys, neither of whom seemed inclined to do more than pole along but they were sure footed and almost before she caught her breath, they were riding out of town along a narrow, rutted road.

"The Wounded Coast is a dangerous place even without darkspawn. It's home to bandits and mercenaries so be alert."

"Yes, Commander Howe," she retorted dryly.

"You'll thank me for that warning should we meet any," he replied crisply.

Off to her left were cliffs and if she looked beyond them she saw the skeletal remains of many a ship, lying forgotten on the rocks, beaten mercilessly by the waves pounding against them. She shivered, wondering how many poor souls had never made it to Kirkwall.

The Wounded Coast was a boulder strewn, barren place. Low bushes and grasses scrabbled for purchase among the rocks and hard packed sand. The wind whistled a mournful tune as it rippled the grass and wandered away. She had thought Ferelden an inhospitable place but it was warm and welcoming by comparison.

They found the camp late in the afternoon. The pale sun was slowly sinking, it's glory dimmed by the haze. Anya ignored the ache in her hip and set about unsaddling Spirit, which seemed a misnomer for such a weary and joyless horse. She left the horse nibbling the grass and carried her saddle back to the camp. Nathaniel was building a fire.

"I'm sure they will be returning soon," he remarked. "No doubt you'll want to take Hawke and return to Kirkwall as soon as possible," he added snidely.

Anya felt her frustration fading in the face of her mounting anger. What had she done to upset him so? Was he so afraid of her feelings for him that he felt the need to freeze her out? To verbally slap at her? She wished she had never said anything, wished she didn't _feel_ anything. The uneasy, cold silence between them had to stop. Even if it meant keeping her feelings to herself.

"I don't want to fight, Nathaniel. I know you think that I came here to find Anders, but I didn't. I needed to see where he was, yes, but not because I need to see _him_."

Nathaniel looked up, disbelief in every line of his body. She curled her hands into fists. "I need to be able to close that chapter of my life if I am to move on to the next."

"The only way that will happen is if Anders dies. Otherwise he's just a specter, waiting to arise the minute you least expect it."

Anya frowned at the bitterness in Nathaniel's voice. "Are you speaking of my need or your own?" she challenged quietly.

Standing abruptly, Nathaniel paced the small confines of the camp, an unspoken answer.

"You are not to kill Anders."

"Is that an order, Commander?" His sneer stabbed at her barely healed wound. Why was he being so unreasonable? There was an unusual cruelness in his words that she hadn't seen since their first meeting. It was unlike him and yet the eerie echo was there, a barb that couldn't go unanswered.

Anya's eyes prickled with unexpected tears that she blinked away. "Don't force me to make it one, Nathaniel. I know he hurt you too but we must let it go."

Nathaniel's eyes narrowed and his lips curled in a cold smile. "Will you always have a need to protect him? To defend him?"

Would she? Was that what she was doing? Or was that what Nathaniel needed to believe? Somehow whatever had happened that night on the battlements seemed to have mattered not a whit to him, it was as if it hadn't happened. Why?

It came to her like the rushing wind that cleaned the air after a storm. She didn't have any need to kill Anders or see Anders anymore. Whatever need had driven her to Kirkwall was gone. Her voice, when she found it again, was still full of the frustration and anger that flicked at her nerves but it was a new anger and frustration, one she didn't quite understand but knew involved Nathaniel.

"I am not protecting him. I am following the orders of Weisshaupt and King Alistair. What is really bothering you, Nathaniel? What is making you so angry?"

"What's bothering me?" he asked, incredulous. "What's bothering me? I see you staring out across the Waking Sea every night, waiting for him to return. Why? Why would you want him to? So he can kill you? So you no longer have to feel guilty because you survived?"

"I – don't…" she began only to be cut off.

"I'm tired of watching you suffer through the guilt and remorse because of him. I can't believe you still think he is redeemable, that you can somehow save him from himself. He's a mad dog, or worse, a demon. An abomination. I can't help wondering if you would do the same for…" Nathaniel broke off and wheeled away, striding out toward the cliffs.

Would she do the same for who? Her Wardens? Him? Was that what he needed to hear? Maker, she was an idiot, and he was an even bigger idiot. What they had shared on the battlements had been special, the first tentative steps of healing, of her beginning to trust her heart again. Was he blind? Stubborn? A fool? She gave an unhappy laugh. She was a fine one to talk. She stared at the fire but found no answers there.

Shaking her head, she turned and went in search of Nathaniel. He was near the edge of the cliff, staring out at the sea. Anya felt a curious mixture of tenderness and anger. She wanted to tug his hair and hug him.

"Nathaniel, your anger is no healthier than mine," she began and then stilled, listening. Nathaniel turned his head slightly.

"Bandits," he whispered. "Don't turn around. I don't think they've noticed us yet."

Blood thrummed hotly through her veins, her heart stuttered to a stop before racing pell-mell in her chest. Their argument lay forgotten for the moment at the realization that she'd left her weapons at the camp. As had Nathaniel.

"How many?" she whispered.

"I see ten, but I think there are four archers, hiding in the rocks."

"I can take one or two, at most. All I have on me is my boot knife."

"We can't fight them, we need to hide, wait for Stroud and the others to return." Nathaniel glanced around quickly. She was afraid to move at all, lest she give them away.

"Follow me," he whispered and began to move with sinuous grace along the edge of the cliff.

They hadn't taken more than a few steps when Anya, her hip catching, tripped over a rock and sprawled on the ground with a noise that seemed to reverberate like thunder. Nathaniel hoisted her up and urged her on, gripping her arm tightly. The bandits were now aware of them, giving chase and gaining ground. She could hear them yelling to each other, hear their laughter.

Anya knew what would happen to her if she was caught but it didn't stop her from yelling breathlessly, "Nathaniel, run for help! I'm slowing us down too much!"

Nathaniel's grip on her arm tightened, biting through her linen blouse to bruise her skin. Maker, she'd left her leather jerkin behind as well, not that it afforded much protection either but somehow it made her feel completely vulnerable.

Coming to an abrupt halt, Nathaniel teetered on the edge of the cliff. He looked at her and then back over her shoulder. She could hear the men pounding after them. Nathaniel leaned forward and looked over the precipice.

"Give me your hand, Anya. When I tell you to, I want you to push away from the edge and jump."

"What? Are you insane? I – I can't do that," she said frantically, nearly choking on the fear that rose like bile in her throat.

"_Remember Annie. Just let go and jump."_ Sigrun's last words to her. Anya took a deep breath, fighting a wild urge to laugh at Sigrun's prophesy. She tried to clear her mind and took another deep breath.

"Jump!" Nathaniel yelled.

A primitive instinct took over. Anya dug in her heels and pushed off, still holding Nathaniel's hand. A moment of silence, as if the whole world paused to watch the events unfold, and then she heard a long, panicked cry piercing the stillness, and the world was back in motion as she sailed out away from the face of the cliff. Her legs were searching desperately for ground and she knew if she hit the water that way it would break several bones, if not kill her outright. She fought to bring them together as the sea raced up to meet her.

They hit the water at the same time but the impact, a physical blow that crashed into her with a raw savagery, broke their hands apart. The water was cold and dark, threatening to tear her breath from her just at it had torn Nathaniel's hand from her grip. Thousands of pinpricks bit into her skin at once as she sank deeper into the murky water. Her body stung and burned even as she felt the iciness of the water prickling along her scalded skin.

Down, down she went, weighted by her waterlogged leather boots and breeches, unsure where Nathaniel was or where she was in relation to the surface. Her lungs screamed, burning and begging her for more air. The need to take a gulping breath was almost overpowering. She clamped her jaws together, refusing.

And as she continued her descent, serenity came to her, a calmness that drifted sweetly into her mind as the dark silence engulfed her. She felt at peace and in those few seconds she thought of her own death without fear. It would be so easy here in the silence of the sea to just let go and float free of the constant pain and uncertainty. She could just let it all go. Her eyes closed and her muscles relaxed. She stopped fighting.

A movement of the currents and then her feet touched the sandy bottom of the ocean floor, jarring her. Her eyes opened, her mind expanding with sudden insight. She was not afraid to die, she never had been. She had been afraid to live again. She had been afraid to forgive herself for what had happened. She had been afraid to trust in herself again. Her fear was driving a wedge between her and the one man who could help her learn to love again. Blindingly sharp clarity, as breathtaking as a spring morning, rippled through her.

Just as that feeling settled into her heart and brain, adrenaline flooded in to her blood. A euphoric state bubbled up in her. She had been afraid to live but now she knew that was all she wanted. To accept the life she had been given, to accept Nathaniel into her heart. Maker, she would not waste this second chance that had been granted her. She pushed off the ocean floor, propelling herself upwards.

Up, up she went, buoyant and ebullient, as light as the bubbles trailing after her as she made her way to the surface. The darkness receded as she ascended, just as her heart was lighter and then she was breaking the surface, searching for Nathaniel, choking and sputtering.

He was several yards away, searching for her, calling her name. She could see the panic in his movements and expression. He saw her and a rare smile broke across his features, chasing the panic away. She began to swim towards him, her heart beating in tempo with her strokes, her breath coming in thankful gulps.

They met in the middle and she threw her arms around him, nearly pulling them both under, but his arms slid around her waist and she was laughing and crying and trying to breathe and talk all at once. He held her close, his breath warm against her cold skin. He was whispering something but she couldn't hear it over the singing of adrenaline rushing through her and the joy that swept along in its wake. She treaded water, her face upturned, sharing her heart with him, hoping he saw her joy in the brightness of her smile.

He dipped his head and for a minute she thought _he_ was crying but then his lips were on hers and it didn't matter whether he was crying or she was. It didn't matter that they were both shivering from the cold. It only mattered that he was kissing her; that his lips tasted like sea and salt and life; that he had caught her when she had finally had the courage to jump.

His tongue was surprisingly warm as she opened her mouth to it and one of his hands cupped the back of her head, his long fingers tangling in her water-soaked hair. She dug her hands into his shoulders, pulling herself closer as they bobbed in the water, pushed together and pulled apart by the waves.

Nathaniel finally broke the kiss and she saw in that unguarded moment the same joy in his expression that swelled in her heart.

"My Anya," he whispered roughly before his lips claimed hers again.


	9. Decisions and Desires

**A/N:** _There's a NSFW section later in the chapter. Also, this will be the last update until after my vacation. The next one should be the 13__th__ or 14__th__ of July, hopefully._

_Thanks to all of those lurking, reading and especially those reviewing. I appreciate it very much._

**Decisions and Desires**

Hawke stared in horror as Anders became Vengeance. Lyrium and magic, raw and powerful, exploded from him in one furious cry, torn from his throat by a rage and hatred she couldn't comprehend. She watched the scene unfold, transfixed, caught by the terrible beauty of the creature before her in all its unearthly glory.

Ser Alrik grabbed his head and screamed, an inhuman sound of agony as his body collapsed in on itself, falling to the ground broken and ruined. Hawke could feel her mana being drained from her. Her spell faltered, flickered, winked out. She realized with a numb horror that it wasn't the templars surrounding her that had drained away her mana, but the creature beside her, the one who controlled her friend Anders. She was fueling his spells; his brutal and merciless destruction.

"Stop!" she cried above the roar of the tempest and the hum of magic. "Don't kill the mage! Anders! Anders if you can hear me, do not kill the mage. She is who you fight for, who you seek justice for!"

Retribution sought and exacted, Vengeance gradually gave way to Anders. He fell to his knees, holding his head and crying out in his anguish. Tears, still tinged blue from the lyrium, streaked his face, giving him an almost ethereal beauty.

Hawke turned to the frightened young mage, urgency coursing through her blood. "Now, while he has regained control, leave! Run! Find somewhere safe!"

The girl picked herself up and fled, skirts held high. If she was smart she would keep running until she was as far from the city as her legs could take her, Hawke thought grimly. Turning back to the tortured man, Hawke discovered he was gone.

Reaction was setting in as the adrenaline drained from her. She sank down, her knees weakened by fear and anger. She had believed Anders could control the spirit he housed, the spirit of Justice who had become a demon of Vengeance. Did she run away from him or help him? Did she refuse his friendship or accept it? She was staring into an abyss and she must either leap into it or turn away forever.

Hawke had watched helplessly as her father died, unable to do more than weep at the loss. She had watched helplessly as her sister died, unable to even take the time to mourn. Carver had been taken from her and she had been helpless to prevent it. Could she watch helplessly as Anders died slowly at the hands of Vengeance? Or could she offer her hand in friendship? Would it help him or would it further weaken him?

"_Do not hesitate to leap." _ Flemeth's strange words. Were they prophetic? A foretelling of the events before her now? Was it even possible to know or understand what Flemeth had meant?

Hawke sighed. Her life was already complicated, the road ahead of her twisted by the uncertainty in her life. Yet she couldn't bring herself to toss aside the tormented man. She couldn't bear the thought of one more loss in her life, not if she had the ability to prevent it. She stood, leaning briefly on her staff. The staff forged by her father. The staff that gave her strength.

Her decision made, she walked away from the carnage, back the way she had come. She entered the clinic, Reynard at her side, unsure of what she'd find but certain it was where she needed to be.

Anders was bent over a small pack, murmuring softly as he stuffed the pack with his meager possessions. Hawke, her heart guiding her steps, came to stand beside him and put a light hand on his shoulder.

"Anders, you don't need to leave."

"Don't I? You saw what happened back there. I could have killed that mage. I _would _have killed her if you hadn't stopped me. It wasn't me. Yet it was. It's all just wrong and I can't control it."

"You can control it. You did control it or that girl would be dead. Fight to stay in control. Whatever spirit Justice was he isn't any longer. Justice is always tempered by mercy. Vengeance is just violence and revenge."

She watched Anders shake his head. "If I stay I'm afraid I'll hurt you, Hawke. I can't even…I don't know how I'd live with that."

"Let me worry about that, Anders. I want to be your friend. I want you to stay. Please."

**~~~oOo~~~**

Maker, what had he been thinking? Why had he insisted they wait until their return to Kirkwall to explore their new relationship? He and Carver would be sailing in two days; she would leave for Orlais the day after that. They'd be apart for Maker knew how long. So why had he decided to wait?

He stared into the hot coals of the fire and frowned. He knew why. She deserved more than a quick roll in the sand. He wasn't going to treat her like some common strumpet. He had waited over a year for her; he could bloody well wait another night, for Maker's sake. But he ached in ways he hadn't experienced in years.

She had felt so right in his arms, so incredibly perfect. He still wasn't sure what had happened, he only knew that she had finally seen him as a man and not as her Second or a friend. She desired him. She wanted him as badly as he wanted her. Hot blood rushed downward, curling and snaking through his body. He shifted uncomfortably.

Nathaniel felt impatience drum along his nerves as he watched Anya and Stroud discussing the recruit, Carver Hawke. She stood and began to walk off with Stroud, holding on to the man's arm as she stepped over the uneven ground. Nathaniel watched her from lowered lids, pretending to study the fire. Her hair was braided and pinned snugly in a neat coil at her neck, its red highlights shimmering like liquid fire in the last vestiges of sunlight. He frowned. She had been badly bruised after their leap into the ocean and he could tell from the way she moved that she was in pain but too stubborn to let it slow her down.

As if aware of his scrutiny, she stopped and turned, flashing a smile at him, sending another quick thrum of heat into him, making his heart beat faster. He wanted her and when were they going to bloody well go back to the city? He nodded to her, wondering if she saw the flare of desire in his eyes. She blushed lightly and her smile grew more intimate before she turned back and continued her walk with Stroud.

"So, a woman commander? I'll bet you enjoy being _under_ her command, eh?"

"Varel warned me you had an attitude, Warden. There's no room for it here. Lose it or I'll help you do so," Nathaniel replied, his voice dangerously quiet as he looked at the tall man standing before him. Nathaniel rose to his feet in a smooth, effortless motion. He turned to look for Anya, hoping she hadn't heard the boorish comments.

"Oh, struck a nerve, did I?"

Nathaniel whipped around, his hand snaking out with stunning speed to wrap around the young man's thick neck. "Apparently you're a slow learner," he said in those same quiet tones, venom masked by the whisper of silk.

Carver's green eyes widened. "I meant no offense," he gasped hoarsely.

"Well offense was taken. If you're not careful that tongue of yours will be a thing of the past."

Carver shook his hand off and straightened up. "So, that's the lay of the land, is it? You have a thing for an Orlesian cripple?"

With the grace of a cat Nathaniel struck, his fingers jabbing into the young man's throat. Carver gasped and choked, sinking to his knees. "You'll do well to keep a civil tongue in that big mouth of yours."

Carver's face was ashen and he continued to gasp for air. Nathaniel turned away, disgusted by the young man's words and disgusted with his reaction to them. It was not like him to lose his control but then, he reflected with a grim smile as he moved over to his tent, it had been a strange day with more than a few lapses in his control. He settled on his bedroll and closed his eyes..

"Nathaniel?" Anya asked softly.

"Commander?" Nathaniel asked. He had dozed off and night had arrived as he slept. He blinked, drowsy and not entirely sure he'd heard her or if he'd dreamed her. He sat up and untied his tent flap.

"No, your commander is not available at this time but your Anya is," she replied and humor laced her words.

He leaned out of the tent and found her crouching down in front of him, smiling. "I wished to say good night," she whispered.

"Anya, if you – I don't know that I can –"

Anya's lips silenced him and he tumbled back onto his bedroll with her in his arms. He groaned against her mouth, his arousal painfully straining against his breeks. Her lips were warm and softly pliant against his. The kiss went on until Nathaniel's control, already frayed, began to unravel and he broke away from her, his breath ragged.

"I had to make sure I hadn't dreamed it," she explained, echoing his earlier sentiment. She curled into him and rested her head on his chest. No doubt she could hear his wildly pounding heart. He took a deep breath.

"And?" he asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He let his fingers curl into her hair.

"If it's a dream, don't wake me," she sighed.

Nathaniel let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. His arms tightened around her and they drifted into sleep.

The ride back to Kirkwall seemed interminable. Anya rode beside Carver, who was quiet and respectful, his earlier belligerence gone. Nathaniel wondered how long that would last. He listened to their voices discussing Ferelden and Lothering in particular and then he heard Anders's name mentioned. He edged his horse closer to the pair.

"You know Anders. What's he really like?" Carver asked.

"That's a difficult question to answer, Warden Carver. The Anders I knew no longer exists. The old Anders wouldn't hurt any living creature unless it was to save lives. He was witty and warm and kind."

And secretive and manipulative, Nathaniel thought bitterly. "He used us all and if I hadn't sworn an oath not to kill him, he would be dead."

"Nathaniel," Anya said quietly, the warning clear in her tone.

"What do you mean? Is Margaret in danger?" Carver asked, pulling his horse up sharply.

"I doubt it but if it will ease your mind, I'll speak with her," Anya offered, before spurring her horse to catch up to Stroud, a silent message to Nathaniel that she was unhappy with him. He couldn't bring himself to regret his words to Carver. They were true and if he was ever to have the relationship with Anya that he wanted, he would not lie to her.

"What was it you called the commander last night? Oh right, the _Orlesian cripple_. Well who do you think is responsible for that?" Nathaniel asked the young man, unable to keep the acrimony from his voice.

As much as he loved and respected her, Anya was wrong about Anders. He needed to be put down just like any other rabid dog. One day she would understand that. He only hoped it wouldn't be too late.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anya stared out the window at the square below. The inn, situated in the heart of Hightown, was clean and richly furnished and comfortable. Her room was across the hall from Nathaniel's. Anticipation and nerves were making it impossible for her to sit still. She smoothed imagined wrinkles from her dress and licked dry lips.

Movement in the square caught her attention and she watched as Nathaniel stepped out of the inn and walked to a dwarf who wore a crossbow on his back and a playful smile on his lips. She continued to watch as the two men greeted each other with an easy familiarity that spoke of a deep friendship.

Who was he? Was he the friend that Nathaniel had asked to watch Anders? Hardly an unobtrusive sort but she trusted Nathaniel. If he felt the dwarf was the right man for the task, she would accept that. The dwarf looked up suddenly and Anya, knowing she had been seen, stood her ground. He bowed slightly, an infectious grin creasing his face. She couldn't stop her answering smile and she raised a hand in greeting.

Nathaniel turned his head, following the dwarf's gaze. Anya's heart leapt to life, pattering across her chest as he flashed a quick smile at her before turning back to speak with the dwarf. She watched as Nathaniel dipped his head slightly and she wondered how his dark, silken hair would feel trailing along her skin. Nerves were chased away by a flood of heat and want that made her stomach flutter.

She turned away from the window, eyes scanning the room. A bottle of wine, two glasses and a plate of fruits and cheeses sat on a low table between two chairs. A low fire burned with cheery warmth, casting golden hues into the corners of the room, stealing their shadows. The bed was turned down, an invitation that Anya suddenly regretted as it seemed too bold a move. She should pull the counterpane up. She should…

A knock interrupted her thoughts, scattering them like ashes caught in a wind. Her heart fluttered and her stomach lurched. What had she been thinking? He would take one look at her body, marked and scarred by battles, and run away. She was an idiot.

"Anya?" Nathaniel asked through the thick oak door separating them.

She moved with reluctance and put her hand on the door, terrified in that moment. Her voice, strangled and foreign in her ears, whispered, "Nathaniel, I…"

"My Anya," he said, his voice low as it caressed her name.

She swallowed and slowly opened the door, forcing herself to look at him and not the floor. He swept her into his arms and her fears began to melt under the heat of his gaze. "It doesn't matter," he said softly, as if he knew the cause of her reluctance. Had she spoken aloud or was the fear written on her face? Did he understand her that well?

"You say that now but you haven't seen…"

"It doesn't matter," he repeated and then his lips found hers and she didn't care if it mattered or not, she only knew that in that moment she was loved and desired.

His tongue sought entrance to her mouth and she opened like a spring flower, her breath leaving her as hunger swept into her blood. A need to touch and be touched, to be consumed by the man who held her, to consume him, to feel him moving inside her flowed into her, coursing through her like a rampant river; dampness soaked her smalls and her nipples stiffened as she moved her hips against his.

"I need you," she whispered against his mouth.

A groan from Nathaniel told her he was feeling the same but he spoke, voice roughened with passion. "I can't promise to be gentle," he warned and she smiled up at him.

"I don't need gentle."

With a feral growl, his teeth bit sharply at her neck. She buried her fingers in the dark silk of his hair, urging him on as he trailed blazing kisses up the column of her neck and along her jaw before returning to nip sharply again. His hands swept along the curve of her waist and continued upward until he cupped her breasts, his thumbs rubbing roughly against her nipples. The pain made her throb and pulse and she cupped his hand, pressing it against her breasts. Their moans mingled as his lips founds hers.

Clothes began to fall to the floor, their fingers working in urgent partnership. His shirt fluttered down to rest beside her gown. She shivered as his lips ghosted over her breasts through her thin shift, his breath hot. Her fingers explored his broad shoulders and toned chest, tracing a series of scars along his torso, dipping into his unlaced breeks to wrap around his stiff manhood. He groaned, thrusting into her grip and then she heard a ripping sound; her shift fell away, two halves floating down to the growing pile of clothes.

"Maker," he whispered reverentially, eyes heavy lidded as he reached out to touch her bared breasts. He bent to take a nipple into his mouth, his tongue teasing it and nipping gently at it. She moaned, his name falling from her lips, her fingers urging him not to be gentle. He bit down and suckled in hard pulls and she felt it ripple all the way to her core.

"Please," she whispered, voice ragged.

He picked her up and carried her to the bed and she watched as he shimmied out of his breeks and smalls, his erection throbbing and pulsing with his every breath. He was beautiful, standing in the golden light of the fire. A broad, well toned chest tapered to a narrow waist and hips. A trail of silky black hair drew her eyes down and she reached out to run her hand along his thick shaft.

"Anya," he growled, lowering himself onto her. She guided him into her, moaning with pleasure as he entered, sliding into her moist channel, filling her. She rocked against him, whispered her need.

"Yes," she murmured as she shifted her hips to accommodate his length and the weight of his body. He thrust again and she gasped, catching her lower lip between her teeth at the sensation, her need pooling, gathering, intense and insistent.

He rolled them over and she straddled him. Leaning over, she bit his full lower lip. pulling at it. One of his hands gripped her hip, fingers digging into her skin. He used his other hand to stroke her body, lower and lower until his thumb found her hard bud. She gasped, arching into his touch as the pleasure coiled and tightened in her. She called out; his name a song of lust and want as their tempo increased.

"Anya!" he cried out, thrusting forcefully. Her walls tightened, shivered as they clamped around his engorged member, trembling as her climax approached. His thumb flicked at her nub, teasing and tempting.

"Nathaniel!" she said, voice gone husky, her walls shuddering as the waves of her orgasm crashed into her and she was riding him, her movements in perfect rhythm with his. Another climax was screaming towards her, his thumb relentless in its pursuit of her pleasure.

He arched his hips, his body trembling, her name on his lips as he found his release and spilled into her. Her muscles quivered around his erection and he groaned in pleasure, thrusting reflexively until he was spent.

"My Anya," he growled and her heart fluttered at the possessive tenderness in his voice.

"Yours," she agreed softly. "Only yours, Nathaniel."

They didn't go down to supper, content to nibble on cheese and each other. Anya found herself constantly touching him; brushing his hair away from his face so she could see his penetrating grey eyes, a thumb grazing along his sensuous lower lip, a hand resting lightly on his thigh, drawing small circles on it. When he gathered his shirt and began to pull it over his head, she frowned in disappointment.

"Unless you are embarrassed or cold, I would ask you not to."

Nathaniel turned and gave her an uncharacteristic smirk. "If it pleases you," he said, tossing the shirt aside again.

They made love again after sharing a glass of wine. He spread the counterpane on the floor in front of the fire and let his lips wander across her body, exploring it with teeth and tongue and lips. He found her bud and her swollen lips, teasing and tantalizing her until she was panting and imploring for release. He moved with sinuous grace along her body and then, without warning, thrust into her and her body hung suspended for long minutes of tortured pleasure before plunging over the abyss. He followed shortly after, burying his face in her hair and whispering her name over and over as if he couldn't believe she was real.

In the morning, just as dawn chased away the last lingering stars, they made love again. Slowly, tenderly, their eyes locked on each other.

As she watched him dress to go back to his room, she realized how badly she wanted to return to Vigil's Keep with him. "I will miss you," she said, reaching out to gently caress his face. Regret laced her words.

"I know. It doesn't feel right, leaving you here."

They kissed and held each other, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. "I need to go and visit Margaret," she said reluctantly, adding "I promised Carver," when he made a low sound of disapproval.

"I'll go with you."

"No, Nathaniel. I need to do this on my own. If I leave soon I can meet you on the docks before your ship sails."

Nathaniel finally agreed but not before kissing her so thoroughly she momentarily forgot what her plans were. "You wretched man. You did that on purpose."

"Did what, Commander Anya?" he asked, his eyes wide and guileless.

An hour later, bathed and wearing her Warden leathers and a long, hooded cloak against the morning drizzle, she set off for Margaret Hawke's Hightown mansion.

The woman who led her into a private room was lovely. Beautiful in a way Anya could never be; all golden hair and soft curves and delicate grace. Anya saw the resemblance to Carver in the green eyes that met hers with surprising candor.

"You are Carver's commander," Margaret Hawke stated, inviting her to sit in a high-backed chair.

"I am. It is at his behest that I am here this morning, Mistress Hawke. I would not presume otherwise."

"Tell me," the woman said quietly, sitting across from her.

Anya took a deep breath and told her about Anders and his merging, leaving nothing out of the story. The woman blanched and brought a hand to her mouth as Anya related the events of the massacre. At the end, the woman was silent for some time.

"I didn't want to frighten you, but you need to understand that the man you know as Anders is not who he claims. He is dangerous and if you cross him, you could pay a very high price for it."

"As you did, Commander Anya."

Anya stood, reaching into her pack and producing a small, jeweled dagger in a worn leather scabbard. "I ask that you keep this with you, Mistress Hawke. One day you may need it." She pressed it into Hawke's hands. "For your sake, and because I promised your brother," she reiterated. Hawke nodded reluctantly.

The woman stood, tucking the dagger into a pocket of her gown, a gentle smile on her lips. "You love him."

Shaking her head, Anya corrected, "I did love the man I thought he was. I'm not sure I ever knew the real Anders."

Hawke led her back to the large entryway and Anya was impressed and relieved with how calmly she accepted Anya's story. She admired Hawke, hoped her brother had that same quiet courage and determination.

"Commander Anya, would you write to me? Let me know how Carver does? He won't write, knowing him, and whether he believes it or not, I worry about him."

"I will, but only if you call me Anya."

"And I am Hawke to my friends."

Anya smiled and nodded. "Now, I must get to the Gallows and see Nathaniel and Carver off. Thank you for your time."

Hawke took Anya's hands in hers and squeezed them gently. "No, it's I who should thank you. I know that was not an easy tale to tell. I do appreciate it."

Just as she was about to leave, she turned to Hawke. "If you are ever in need of anything, please don't hesitate to ask. Your brother is a part of our family now, which means you are as well."

She barely made it to the Gallows before the ship sailed. Mooring lines were already being reeled in. Nathaniel was pacing the quay and searching the small knot of people gathered on the pier. He broke into a run as soon as he saw her and he swept her off her feet, hugging her to him.

"Did you think I'd miss an opportunity to nag you about your duties one last time?" she teased as he settled her back onto her feet.

"I thought you might be reconsidering last night," he replied truthfully.

"Never, my dear Nathaniel. The only thing I'm reconsidering is my meeting in Jader."

"I know it's too soon, Anya. I know this isn't the right time or place. I know you're still healing, but I can't leave without telling you that I love you," he said in a rush and before she could reply, he kissed her and then turned, loping back to the ship.

Her heart leapt and danced in her chest. He loved her and she couldn't imagine a greater gift than that. She knew a joy that transcended the pain and sorrow of the past seven months. She knew without him, she wasn't whole. That together they were greater than they were apart. Was that love? Her answer sang sweetly in her blood.

She hurried after him. She was limping and hopping in her rush. No doubt I look like a demented crane, she thought wryly, trying to catch him before he boarded.

"Nathaniel! Wait!" she cried above the raucous screech of gulls.

He turned and stopped, his face open and vulnerable. She was smiling, giddy as a child on Feastday. His rare smile flitted across his face and disappeared as he hurried back to her.

"You can't tell a woman you love her and run away, Nathaniel. At least not until she responds."

"I didn't think the woman was ready to respond yet. I didn't want to rush her," he explained somberly.

"I am as surprised as you are to find that you hold my heart in your hands," she said, reaching up to run loving fingers along his cheekbones. Her hood fell back as he captured her lips and her arms went around his shoulders. She stood on the tips of her toes to whisper against his ear.

"I love you, Nathaniel Howe."

"Two weeks is going to be bloody long," Nathaniel growled and then he was gone, leaping onto the deck of the ship as the captain ordered them under way.

The ship was quickly swallowed by the low hanging wall of clouds.

Her trip to Kirkwall had certainly been full of surprises.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anders knelt beside the dockworker, his hands hovering over a deep and nasty gash on the man's chest. The man's breathing was ragged and his face pale from blood loss. The blue glow of a healing spell wrapped around the man and in moments the gash was closing. Anders placed a poultice on the man's chest and then wrapped strips of linen around it.

"Take it easy today and you should be fine tomorrow."

With that, he stood and wiped his hands on a cloth before returning it to his kit. Two men helped the injured dockworker to his feet and the crowd dispersed.

As he made his way back to the small rowboat that would take him across the bay, he saw a familiar figure and his heart seized. Was that Nathaniel Howe running along the quay? Anders fumbled to a stop. He moved with jerky steps to hide behind a stack of crates and watch his former friend.

What was Nathaniel doing in Kirkwall? Had he been sent to bring him back to the Vigil for punishment? Why wait seven months to do that? Why not have Stroud do it? He continued watching as Nathaniel pulled a cloaked figure into his arms.

A woman? Nathaniel had a lover in Kirkwall? Anders had always thought Nate carried a torch for the commander, though he had never said so. A part of him wanted to call out to his friend, to see how things were at the Vigil, to ask after Annie. But he couldn't. He knew Nate well enough to know the man would not welcome him with open arms. He was more likely to kill him.

Anders continued watching as Nathaniel turned and ran back to a ship that was preparing to sail. The woman still had her back to Anders but he was curious what type of woman Nate found attractive. The woman moved, running after Nate with an odd skipping step and Anders realized the woman had been injured, that she was limping. The healer in him felt a moment's pity for the woman. Had he been there to help, she would not have that awkward gait. Her healer must have been an incompetent idiot.

Nathaniel turned back and hurried to meet the woman. Maker's breath, he had it bad. He was grinning like a fool as he ran towards the woman. Her hood fell back as she reached her arms around Nate's neck, exposing an abundance of dark red curls. Anders felt his heart lurch and grind to a stop. His mind went blank for several seconds as shock knocked the wind out of his lungs.

Annie! His beautiful Annie. Maker help him, it was Anya. What had happened to her? What had caused her limp? A searing vision of her, broken and bloody, rose in his mind and he felt a twisting pain in his heart. His grief leapt to life again, his guilt threatening to choke him. Oh Maker, what had he done? He fell to his knees, burying his head in his hands.

_You happened, Anders. You and I. Anya survived, is that not enough?_

**Don't say her name. Don't even think it.**

_She appears happy, does she not? _

**Is that one more way you think to control me? Is she real or is this one of your cruel tricks?**

A sharp burst of pain behind his eyes brought tears to Anders's eyes, reminding him who had the power and control. He let out a low moan and pulled himself up, using the crates to support him.

_You made your decision, Anders. She is lost to you. Look at her smile. She is at peace. Let her remain so._

Anders heard a warning but also a sorrow in Justice's voice that he didn't understand. He also didn't remark on it. It was never wise to question Justice. The pain in his head was receding, even as the pain in his chest grew.

She was happy and at peace. She deserved to be, but it hurt that she was already moving on, that he had left no deep impression in her heart. He stepped into the shadows, away from the woman as she limped quickly along the wooden planks of the quay. He should be far enough away that she wouldn't sense him through the damnable taint, an identifier no less restrictive and damning than his phylactery.

His eyes followed her until she was out of sight. Her limp tore at his conscience. He had done that to her, he and Justice. Maker, the pain he had put her through. No wonder she had moved on. How could she not hate him for what he had done?

He had made his decision and he would have to live with the consequences for the rest of his life. He had disobeyed her direct order and her heartfelt plea so that he could help a friend. Had he known the outcome, would he have still done it? Would he have ignored her and done what he felt he had to? Or had he ever really had a choice? Had he actually made the decision or had Justice already been in control of him in some way? His thoughts tangled up in his head and he blinked, trying to let them go.

He wondered just how different his life would be had he had listened to her and not Justice.


	10. Visitors

**A/N: **_My deep appreciation to lisakodysam for being a wonderful (and quick) beta. She rocks, as does her writing!  
>My continued thanks to all those reading and especially those taking the time to review. I appreciate it very much. <em>

**Visitors**

Anya curled up in the overstuffed chair, book in hand. She should be tired; she had slept very little the night before, but her mind was alive with the possibilities of her new and unexpected future with Nathaniel. She was sure she wore a dazed and giddy smile. For the first time in seven months she felt alive. More than that, she felt hopeful, as though she could take flight.

There were so many things that she needed to do, so many tasks at hand, but her thoughts kept returning to her leap into the raging sea and the surprising peace she had found in its depths. And in Nathaniel's arms. It seemed improbable and unreal, these gossamer threads of her new life, yet for all that they were fragile, they were also resilient. She would persevere, her love for Nathaniel would continue to grow and she would finally be able to move forward.

With those thoughts came a new awareness of Anders. He was out there in the ocean of night, in the shadows that clung to the city. Was he happy? Had he found peace as well? Or was he still tormented, plagued by demons both real and imagined? Her happiness drifted away from her grasp momentarily as she was struck by a wave of grief for the man she had once loved. No matter what else happened in her future, Anders would always be with her in some fundamental way. He was in the pain of her hip on cold nights, in the limp she would carry for the rest of her life, in the ache of failure that lay just beyond her conscious thoughts. And, too,in the love she felt for Nathaniel; she would never have found him had Anders not pushed her over the edge.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts and she jumped as her memories scattered into the four corners of the room, lost in the gloom. With an effort, she pulled herself out of the chair and went to the door. A hint of apprehension crawled along her spine before it joined her thoughts. She slipped her boot knife into her pocket and leaned against the door.

"Who is it?"

"We have a mutual friend who asked me to check up on you."

A friendly voice, calm and confident, with a hint of humor tracing along the words. She opened the door and looked down at the dwarf standing in the flickering light of the hallway lamps. He had dark blonde hair and light brown eyes. An easy grin rested comfortably on his face. He was the one Nathaniel had been talking to in the square. The dwarf sketched a bow

"Varric Tethras, at your service," he said, his grin growing until it bordered on cheeky. She found herself smiling in return.

"Our mutual friend would be Nathaniel?" she asked, opening her door wider to admit the dwarf.

He wore a finely-made leather duster, unbuttoned. His dark silk shirt, richly embroidered and open nearly to his navel, revealed a thick furring of springy light brown hair on his chest and a heavy gold chain. In fact, he appeared to be wearing more jewelry than she owned.

She eyed his crossbow with an appreciation she had not possessed before her lessons in archery. It was beautiful. The red cedar tiller glowed brilliantly in the firelight, attesting to years of lovingly-applied wax and the brass and silver cocking ring and fittings were gleaming in the firelight.

"Ah, you have your eyes on my Bianca."

"She's as fine a weapon as I've ever seen."

With a jaunty tilt of his head, Varric studied her with the practiced ease of a man long accustomed to sizing up his friends and foes alike. "So, you're the woman who finally captured Ser Untouchable."

"Ser Untouchable?"

"Naughty Nate."

Anya's laughter caught her unawares, trilling along her lips and sailing into the room. "_Naughty_ Nate?"

Varric eyed the bottle of Nevarran whiskey sitting on the table between two chairs. "Shall we get acquainted, milady? I've a few stories to tell about that man you seem rather fond of."

"Yes, I'd like that, Ser Tethras."

His brown eyes widened in mock horror. "Please don't ever call me that again. I'm Varric to my friends. And you, lovely lady, are most definitely going to become a friend."

She poured them each two fingers of whiskey and raised her glass to him. "Here's to new friends."

She trusted him implicitly. He was Nathaniel's friend, how could she not? There was something utterly charming about him that inspired trust.

Tipping her head back, she let the fiery liquid slide down her throat to warm her stomach, shivering in appreciation as the warmth spread through her entire body. "You must tell me how Nathaniel came by such a strange moniker. _Naughty_ is not a word one usually associates with Nathaniel."

"I'll drink to that. The first time I met Ser Untouchable he was fighting off three attackers. Those poor sods couldn't touch him. One minute he was there and the next he was hidden in the shadows, striking with the precision of a snake, before disappearing again. I was so impressed I didn't even wake Bianca up, just stood watching."

Refilling the glasses, she listened with rapt attention as the man began to weave a tale of derring-do that would make Nathaniel blush if he heard it. "After that, he was known as Ser Untouchable. It was the ladies of The Blooming Rose who named him Naughty Nate."

Anya frowned. "The Blooming Rose?"

"You provincials. You've never heard of The Blooming Rose? It's only the most famous brothel east of The Paradise in Val Royeaux."

Color swept into Anya's cheeks, warming them much as the whiskey had warmed her insides. She hadn't considered the possibility that Nathaniel would visit a brothel, let alone earn the nickname of Naughty Nate in such a place. She realized how reticent he had always been when speaking of his past

"Indeed? Will it make me blush even more to learn how he came by such a name?"

"Undoubtedly," he replied with a chuckle before launching into the tale.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The thick curtain of clouds parted, revealing the night sky. Hawke, face upturned, drank in the heavenly display, letting her tumultuous thoughts seek solace in the silent beauty that stretched before her; a whirlwind of emotions made calm by a crown of stars. She breathed deeply, aware of the profound stillness, moved by it.

Anders had lied to her, yet she couldn't find it within her to be angry with him. One unselfish act had led to the loss of everything he'd held dear; his friends, his lover, his self respect. It explained how emotionally raw he often appeared to be. It explained how lost he looked when he thought nobody was watching him. While she wasn't angry with him, she _was_ wary. How much did he remember of the events before he fled Ferelden? How much control did he have over Justice? Or did Justice no longer exist? Had the spirit become the demon of Vengeance?

A delicate shiver ran through her as the wind began to dance with the treetops. The soft song of branches brushing against each other broke the silence; a susurration of leaves mourning the coming winter.

She missed the harshness of a Ferelden winter, the cold mistress of snow and icy winds howling disconsolately across the frozen land. It was the _only_ aspect of Ferelden she missed. People thought her mad to say so but now, with winter just a few months away, she envied Carver. Out at sea, on his way back to his homeland just in time to prepare for the first snows.

She wondered if he would miss her or if he knew how much she loved him and admired him. Had she told him? Had she taken the time to let him know that his sacrifices for the family had been appreciated? Would he ever be able to return to Kirkwall? Surely he would be granted time off on occasion? She should have asked Anya for more details.

Anya Caron had been a surprise, not at all what she would expect of a commander or of an Orlesian. Hawke had been raised to hate Orlesians, to despise the former occupiers of Ferelden, but she had been drawn to the woman, had found her charming and forthright. Hawke could appreciate why Anders would fall in love with Anya but, as hard as she tried, she could not understand how he could have hurt her so badly, not just in body but in mind. It went against everything he was as a healer.

Did Justice have such tight control of Anders that he no longer had any free will? She had seen with her own eyes how powerful Justice was and how easily he was provoked. Had he tricked Anders into merging? Had Anders not learned that spirits were almost as dangerous as demons? Did they not teach that in the Circle of Magi? Her father had drummed it into her from the time she was first coming into her power. _Speak with spirits, but do not trust them. If they wish to assist, let them do so in the Fade_.

Sighing, she closed her eyes against the gathering clouds. Soon, the stars were once again swallowed by the thick fog. The wind died away and the branches, no longer swaying, reached dark fingers to the sky that hung just out of reach.

"Hawke."

She startled, already powering up a spell before she realized who had spoken from the shadowed recesses of the garden. She felt a curious combination of dread and hope.

"Fenris."

The elf moved closer, his white hair and lyrium markings ghostly in the ambient light. He came closer still until Hawke could make out his features and the grim expression on his handsome face. He bowed his head slightly and crouched down beside her on the grass.

"I wanted to apologize. I know I seemed ungrateful for the gift."

A wry smile crept out. "Did you?"

"Very well, have your fun and be done with it," Fenris groused but not before his own smile flashed briefly, a gleam of white teeth there and gone in seconds.

"Haven't you ever received a gift before, Fenris? You thank people for them, you don't bark at them as if you are an angry mabari."

"No, I have never received a gift before."

"Well now you have, although I'm not sure I'll ever have the courage to give you another."

"You don't understand how magic enslaved me," he began but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"I understand better than most. When we were children, my father often asked us if we could be anything we wanted, what would it be? Bethany always said the same thing: she wanted to be normal. Carver vacillated between wanting to be a general and wanting to be a farmer. Mostly, he just wanted to have his own life, I think. And what do you think I wanted?"

"Must I play guessing games?" he finally asked after several moments of silence.

"Free. All I ever wanted, all I _still_ want, is to be free. To live my life on my terms without fear of being captured by the templars, enslaved in a tower. We are all slaves in some form or fashion, if we allow it."

"But you are free," he argued.

"As are you. You are as free as you allow yourself to believe you are."

Silence, broken only by the sound of his body settling more comfortably beside her, filled the walled garden. Hawke was content to let it engulf them both and she sat, hands folded in her lap.

"I will think on what you have said."

Perhaps she could allow herself to hope after all.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Yes, what is it?" Nathaniel asked, staring at the tall young man who stood on the other side of the threshold.

"I wanted to apologize for being so out of line. I know I have a big mouth and it starts working long before my brain does. I'm a soldier. I don't think. I act."

"Perhaps it's time you learned to be a Grey Warden and not a soldier."

Nathaniel was not in the mood for more lip from Carver Hawke. He was trying to sort through the paperwork Stroud had sent with him, at Anya's request. The expeditions into the Deep Roads, in search of the ancient Grey Warden prison, had been fruitless and had cost two Wardens their lives. Both Stroud and Anya were concerned that the prison had been built under the Waking Sea, much deeper than anyone had suspected. The ancient maps leading to the prison were coded and in poor shape, the copies of them even more illegible. It amazed him how foolish the Wardens were regarding some of their secrets.

"That's why I'm here. I want to talk about the Wardens."

With an ungracious sigh, Nathaniel beckoned Carver in before turning to the maps strewn on the desk. He began to fold them, his back to the young Warden. "What do you want to know?"

"What's to be expected of me? The Blight is over and the darkspawn seem to be returning to the Deep Roads. What do we do in between Blights?"

"We stay vigilant. We train. We map out areas of the Deep Roads. We fight the small bands of darkspawn that attack on the surface. We assist the dwarves in Orzammar when they ask for help, which isn't often. We recruit new Wardens. We pray that another Archdemon doesn't rise up."

Carver grinned; a self-deprecating expression that made Nathaniel feel a tug of sympathy. In some ways, Carver reminded him of the young, bitter man who had returned to Vigil's Keep determined to avenge his father and reclaim the lost glory of the Howes. Carver was lost and seeking his own identity, something Nathaniel related to on a deep level.

"So, no greatness, just grunt work."

"If we do our jobs properly, people live. That's not grunt work. We sacrifice a great deal in order to keep the darkspawn at bay. An early death, no children, a battle that seems eternal, and precious little recognition, but it's compelling work. Honest work."

"Huh. How early a death?"

"Hard to say, Warden. The Commander has been a Warden for seven years. She probably has twenty left, if the 'spawn don't kill her first. The average is thirty years from the time of the Joining but it can be less or more, depending on how your body adjusts to the taint."

He didn't want to think about how little time he and Anya had together. Twenty years if they were lucky, none if they weren't. But he would rather have the time they had already shared than none at all and it was that thought he chose to focus on.

"How did Commander Anya get that limp? I mean, what did Anders do to her?"

Nathaniel ran a hand through his unbound hair and sighed heavily. No matter how much Anya wanted to sugar-coat what Anders had done, he didn't have it in him to do the same. "He tried to kill her. He nearly succeeded. It was weeks before she regained consciousness."

"Why? Why would he do that?"

Why indeed? Nathaniel wondered if he would ever have a satisfactory answer to the question that had dogged him for seven months. He supposed it shouldn't matter. She was alive. She was herself again, and in some indefinable ways, she was stronger than she had been before. More importantly, she had finally moved beyond the reach of Anders and she had given herself freely to him. What more did he need in order to leave the past behind him?

"Because he's like any other animal when it's cornered; vicious and mindless. He disobeyed the Commander and when the templars tried to capture him, he lost control. He killed the other Wardens in his party and the templars as well. Somehow he managed to stop himself from killing her or maybe he thought she was dead."

Nathaniel blinked away the unwanted image that arose. The carnage, the brutality of the attack was still so vivid in him mind. He remembered the smell of burnt flesh and the coppery tang of blood that had clung to everything. He remembered Anya, broken and barely alive, lying amidst the rubble. A shudder passed through him and he blinked again.

"If he harms Margaret I don't care what the orders are, I will find him and kill him," Carver vowed, his voice a promise of steel and resolve.

"Your sister knows what he's capable of now. I doubt she's in any danger."

Easy words, but no comfort came with them. Carver shook his head. "I've spent my whole life trying to protect her. It's not like I can just stop because I'm a Grey Warden."

Nathaniel smiled coldly. "If he harms her, you'll have my permission to leave your post and seek him out," he promised.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anders paced the small confines of his living quarters, if such a small, shabby room could be called such a thing. The room contained very little of his previous life and even less of his new life. A narrow cot filled one half of the room. He looked around the room and his jaws tightened. He lived in squalor. It seemed fitting, all things considered.

He continued pacing, concentrating on keeping his mind calm. It seemed an impossible task. Somewhere in the city of Kirkwall was the woman he had loved, still loved. His Annie. Crippled because of him. He wanted to see her, felt a desperate need to beg her forgiveness, to atone in some measurable way for what he had done to her. Perhaps he could do something to correct her limp? And what had made that swath of hair go completely white, as if the color had been stripped away? What had he done to her that would have caused her lovely red hair to turn white? Why couldn't he remember more about the attack?

In his agitation, he smashed his fist into the thick stone wall. He heard a loud crack and felt several bones give way, breaking the skin. Blood began to trickle along his fingers and drip onto the floor. He stared dumbly at the damage to his hand. It seemed less than he deserved but the healer in him was already casting spells to repair the damaged bones.

A flicker of memory stirred. Anya had been dangling from his outstretched arm like a rag doll before being tossed carelessly aside. But a clump of hair and scalp remained in his hand. His stomach heaved. Maker's breath. How could she not want to kill him for what he'd done, what Justice had done? Why was she not demanding his head?

_Stop this, Anders. These thoughts serve no purpose._

**Shut up. I'm tired of listening to you. I'm tired of being controlled by you. You have no self-restraint. No compassion. No mercy. You would have killed that mage. You would have killed Anya.**

_No! I would not kill Anya. I could not kill her_. _Even now, I cannot._

Anders frowned, a new awareness emerging from the chaos of his thoughts. Could that really be true? It made sense. It brought logic to the inconceivable. A smile formed on his lips and he straightened his shoulders, sure of himself and the knowledge that now rested in his heart.

**You love Anya. YOU love her, Justice. You learned about love from Kristoff's memories and you fell in love with Annie. That's why you were so insistent on the merging. You wanted to experience what love was like as a human.**

_No! You need to believe such lies because it is easier to blame me than to admit your own fault, Anders. But I am no demon. Do not blame me for your own selfishness._

**You are the one who is lying, Justice. It's a lie **_**you**_** have to believe because to admit otherwise means you were envious; jealous of what Annie and I had. Such envy and jealousy would make you a demon, not a spirit.**

_No! I am a spirit of Justice!_

**You are a demon of Vengeance. You were a demon of aaugh! Stop it! **

Anders fell to his knees, head in his hands as the pain grew more intense. He shook his head, focusing on remaining in control. A moan escaped and then he struggled to stand, to ignore the pain.

_Cease these accusations immediately!_

**You can't stop me from speaking the truth, not if you truly are the spirit of Justice. To do so would go against your very nature. **

_You will cease or you will pay the price, Anders!_

Anders felt laughter bubbling up in him, the laughter that comes with relief. He was almost giddy, his heart lighter than it had been in seven months. He had been tricked and he was to blame for that but now he knew how little he'd ever been in control of the merging and the subsequent events.

**You can't control me now that I know the truth. **

_I cannot, Anders, but __**he**__ can. _

The laughter that had bubbled up died as suddenly as it had started.


	11. What We Tell Ourselves

**A/N: **_Thank you to all of those who are lurking, reading, subscribing and especially those taking time to review this story. I truly appreciate it.  
>Huge thanks to super awesome beta, lisakodysam. She is amazing.<em>

**What We Tell Ourselves**

Bleak and grey, the dawn refused to chase away the gloom. Clouds, violet and fat with rain, scudded across the sky. The few trees in the courtyard below were bending and swaying under the fierceness of the wind. Anya was not looking forward to sailing in stormy weather. She was an indifferent sailor on the best of days. She shivered as she packed the last of her gear and prepared to leave the warmth of the inn. Opening the door, she found Stroud leaning casually against the wall. He looked up with a slow smile.

"Good morning, Anya. You should stop frowning. It does terrible things to your face."

"Maker's breath, Stroud, don't you have somewhere else to be today?"

"Now, now. If I had somewhere else to be would I be here?"

She suspected Nathaniel had arranged her visit from Varric the night before as well as Stroud's company. A spark of anger flared briefly. She was a commander, a grown woman and an able fighter. She didn't need to be coddled, nor did she want to be. Nathaniel should know that by now. Her anger was tempered by the thoughtfulness of the gesture. It was so like Nathaniel to quietly arrange protection for her without saying a word about it. She would, however, discuss the matter with him when she returned to the Vigil. He needed to trust in her ability to look after herself. Not that she had done a very good job of it in the past. That thought sat in her heart as sharp and heavy as leaded glass.

"So your duties are to play watchdog to the helpless commander?" she asked, her tone far more acerbic than she'd intended. Stroud took no offense, laughing heartily.

"Helpless? You? Your tongue is sharp enough to protect you from any attackers."

"I see your time in the Free Marches hasn't curbed your sense of humor."

"Just as I see that your time in Ferelden has not mellowed you," he replied dryly.

Stroud shouldered her pack and picked up her valise before offering his other arm to her. She took it, tucking herself closely against him, her cloak pulled tightly against the brisk morning air.

"If you see Charmoir, tell him he still owes me a bottle of Orlesian red. Niggardly bastard has owed me for over a year."

"One would think you'd learn not to make bets with him. Getting him to pay up on any bet is like trying to wring moisture from a rock."

Despite her best efforts to tell herself she didn't need help or want the company of her old friend, she was grateful for his solid presence. It was the rawness of the day, and not her emotions, she told herself. She almost believed it.

They talked all the way to the docks; small talk, shared memories of old friends that invariably led to laughter and teasing. They avoided talking about her injuries, the rise in darkspawn activity in the Free Marches or anything even remotely meaningful. It was the way of the Grey Wardens. Everyone knew the harsh realities of their life; they didn't need to be constantly reminded of them and instead chose to focus on laughter and ordinary, mundane matters.

_The Hesperus_, a carrack sitting as low and heavy as the clouds in the storm-tossed sky, was ready for departure. Sailors were scurrying across the slanted oak decks and the air rang with orders and acknowledgements. Stroud walked her up the gangplank and then handed off her gear to a young sailor. As soon as his hands were free, he picked her up, swinging her around in his arms, his brown eyes warm and lively.

"Keep safe, little Anya. And come back for a longer visit soon. I've a few more bottles of whiskey hidden away."

"Put me down, you overgrown child!" she laughed, breathless. "It is high time you came to Vigil's Keep for a visit. You need to see how the nobles live," she added with a feigned gentility.

"Maker's ass, I'd rather kiss a genlock."

"Be careful what you wish for, friend."

He dropped a light kiss on the tip of her nose and then leapt back onto the dock with a wave before striding off without a backward glance. The Grey Wardens didn't waste time on long farewells, either. To do so meant acknowledging how short life was, how brutally it could end. That did not diminish the sincerity of a brief farewell. Theirs had been as they always were, affectionate and quick and his presence had soothed her nerves. She stood at the rail, listening to the sounds of the crew getting ready to cast off, her mind calm for all that a storm was gathering.

Anya spied Anders just as the unfurled sails of _The Hesperus_ caught the wind and began to glide out of the harbor. He stood on the dock she had so recently stood on, his face a mask of misery and grief. His hands hung lifelessly at his sides and she had never seen anyone look so utterly alone. Her instinct was to raise her hand, to let him know she had forgiven him, but she wouldn't do that because it would be a lie. Some small part of her wanted to punish him even though she denied it. She told herself she wasn't so petty but she made no move to acknowledge him.

Instead, she clutched tightly to the rail and struggled to keep her expression neutral, all the while trying to get her thundering heart under control. She resolved not to respond to his presence in any way, but Maker it was difficult. She stared at him, allowing herself to take in as much detail as the distance between them permitted. Holding herself still, not showing the swell of emotion within her, was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

He had lost weight and nowhere was it more evident than in his face. His chin was more pronounced, jutting away from the sharpened angle of his jaw. His eyes seemed sunken, dark shadows like ink smudges beneath them. His cheeks were gaunt and his once broad shoulders seemed shrunken and stooped. He had dyed his hair; a dirty light brown color with hints of red in it and he wore it differently. The Anders she had loved was well and truly gone. Her inner voice whispered words of gratitude. The last small sparks of hope for his redemption flickered and were extinguished.

With strength she didn't know she possessed, she let go of her death grip on the rail and turned her back on him, moving as quickly as she could to her small cabin. In the safety of her room, she leaned against the door, eyes closed. Myriad emotions swirled in her heart, throwing her normally well-ordered thoughts into chaos. Rage. Sorrow. Pity. Regret. Fear. Hate and love were gone but the other emotions continued to try to erode her newfound peace.

He'd looked as though he was wasting away from an incurable disease. He'd looked tormented, as if the ghosts of the Void were chasing him. He'd looked frightened, a little boy lost; bereft. Sympathy tugged at her again and she ruthlessly thrust it out of her heart. She would _not_ feel sorry for him. He had chosen to merge with Justice. He had chosen to throw her away to do so. A sob welled up and she choked it down. He would not get another tear from her. Not one more.

Pushing herself away from the door, she made her way to the narrow bed that was bolted to the wall. She sank onto it and, still wearing her boots and gloves, she pulled the blankets around her and curled into a ball, closing her eyes against hot tears that stung and burned her eyelids in their need to fall. She blinked them away, angry at their insistence on falling. They did not.

Anya concentrated on the gentle rocking motion of the ship as it continued on its way to the deepwater channels of the Waking Sea. She concentrated on Nathaniel and the new joy her heart had discovered in his arms. She focused on the tasks before her. She focused on the stories she had heard from Varric and the surprising side of Nathaniel she had not known existed.

Varric was, she had discovered, a natural storyteller. The cadence and timbre of his voice drew her in and his colorful words and innate charm held her spellbound as he talked late into the night. He loved a good audience, he claimed, and she was exactly that. He took to calling her Blue Eyes and warned her that he was already spinning yarns about her in his head:

"_You know, Blue Eyes, I think you'd make for some interesting tales. I'll bet there are things about you even Naughty Nate doesn't know. You might as well tell me what they are. __Otherwise, I'll be forced to make them up."_

_Anya chuckled, setting her glass aside before speaking. "I think you would be better served making them up, Varric. I am a very boring person."_

_Varric snickered. "Nate said pretty much the same thing about himself, but dig a little deeper and you'd be amazed what you learn about a person."_

"_You are, no doubt, a very persistent man. However, I am a very stubborn woman, as I'm sure Nathaniel mentioned. You would do yourself a great favor if you gave up trying to wrestle information from me. Besides, I believe you owe me an explanation of how Nathaniel came by his nickname?"_

_Varric laughed, loud and hearty, his eyes brimming with humor. "You know he'll come back here and make sure I don't tell anyone else his secrets."_

_Anya raised her brow. "Of all the things Nathaniel told me about you, he didn't mention you were so cautious."_

"_Cautious? Madam, you have once again wounded me. You have also forced me very neatly into a corner, I might add."_

_There was a pause, as Varric eyed her once again, his face thoughtful. "You aren't easily offended are you, Anya? I mean, riling Nate's one thing. Riling you might be more than I can handle."_

_Anya shook her head. "No need to worry, Varric. I've been around soldiers my entire life. It takes a great deal to offend me, but thank you for asking," she replied with a grin._

_He rubbed his chin and then sat back, smiling at her. __"I mentioned my first meeting with Nate, but there's much more to the story. He was sent to Kirkwall by Lord Maslan, the man he was squiring for. That man was as sadistic a son of a bitch as you'll ever meet. The rumors were that he ate kittens for breakfast. Blue Eyes, I'm here to tell you that he had a side of eggs with those kittens. But in my position I'm forced to work with all types of nasty._

"_Nate came to Kirkwall to look after Maslan's…business assets. I was supposed to help him and I only agreed to watch those assets to get him off my ass. Some men are too unsavory even for me._

"_I expected Nate to be just like the surly bastard. I was prepared to deal with him as quickly as I could and then walk away. Instead he was broody and dark, two things women seem to find irresistible, __although I think charming and short are much more irresistible__. He wasn't half bad, but didn't seem to have much of a sense of humor. _

"_Who would have guessed a strapping young noble of twenty would still be a virgin? I'm telling you, Blue Eyes, I was sure he'd already ploughed his share of fields so imagine my surprise when I suggested a trip to The Blooming Rose and he flatly refused. Said he was saving himself for a special someone. Once I stopped snickering, I asked him if he had someone special he was saving himself for. He didn't. What can I say? I took his virginity as a challenge."_

_Varric looked at her, gauging her reaction to his story but Anya was enraptured, leaning forward in her chair, anxious for the story to continue. Varric didn't disappoint her._

"_A week later, having discussed Nate's __unusual state__ with several of the ladies of The Blooming Rose, I brought Naughty Nate there after we'd shared a few pints at The Hanged Man. As soon as we settled at a table, a group of gorgeous women draped their scantily-clad selves over the man. His face was as red as a ripe strawberry and he glared at me with those steely grey eyes of his. I started to get a bit nervous at that point. I mean, I'd seen the man fight. I started inching away when he finally opened his mouth. _

"_Anya, I'll never forget what happened next. I was sure he was going to tell me off in very cold, colorful language or maybe pop me in the mouth. Instead, he started singing. Yes ser, he belted out the bawdiest song I'd ever heard. And I'd heard quite a few by that point in my life. He had the whole place busting up. Maker, that man can sing! Launched into another and then with a shrug, chose the three prettiest ladies in the group and headed upstairs. _

"_The sounds that came from the room had most of the men green with envy. Not me, of course. I know my way around the women just fine, thanks, and they don't complain. Two hours later he came down the stairs, grinning like the cockiest son of a bitch I'd ever seen, and ordered a round of drinks for the entire place. On my bloody tab! Said I owed him that much._

"_After that, he was a regular. Once a week, he'd go to The Blooming Rose, belt out a risqué song or two and take a few choice women upstairs for a few hours. Those ladies fought for the honor but never would say what went on up there. And naturally Nate wouldn't say. Claimed no real gentleman would ask or tell. Who the hell wants to be a gentleman if that's the case?"_

_Anya was laughing by the end of the story. When she finally caught her breath, she asked, "Are you making this up? Nathaniel sings? Knows bawdy songs?"_

"_Madam, if I'm lying may the Maker himself come down and squash me like a bug!_

"_He returned to Maslan a few weeks later and it was four years before I saw him again. Spent a year in Kirkwall that time and then went back to Ferelden to avenge his father. I didn't think I'd live to see Ser Untouchable so willing to be touched by only one woman but I've never seen the broody bastard look happier. You're good for him, Blue Eyes. Damned good."_

_A blush painted her cheeks as she listened to his words. "I love him," she said simply. Varric chuckled._

"_You don't say?"_

Anya rolled over, blinking. The need to cry was gone. The sense of failure, of despair, had left her. Swinging her legs off the bed, she padded over to her pack and searched it for the oatcakes the innkeeper's wife had kindly offered her that morning.

**~~~oOo~~~**

_Anders, you do us a grave disservice._

**I need to see her, to beg her forgiveness. Her ship leaves within the hour, according to Cricket. I want to be there. I need to do this.**

_What you have done cannot be undone. Begging serves no purpose_.

**You call yourself a spirit of Justice but what justice was there for Anya? You are as responsible as I am for her injuries and I won't let you forget that just because you don't like to hear it. **

Justice fell silent. Anders wondered how long before the pain would stab at his head but, to his surprise, there was no retaliation. A fleeting sense of triumph found its way past the apprehension. It didn't last long, however, before the deep, resonant voice spoke; Vengeance, the 'he' that Justice had warned him about. But it was no separate voice; no third entity lived inside him. It was merely the reflection of anger and bitterness within both Anders and Justice and no matter how little Justice wanted to admit it, Anders knew it was true. He refused to be cowed by the spirit in that moment, intent on his mission.

_You are weak and that weakness infects Justice. I will not tolerate it._

**You **_**are**_** Justice. You're also me. You can't do anything about it.** **There is no 'he', there is only 'us' and that 'us' includes the creation you call 'he.' You're just afraid to admit you have those twisted emotions inside yourself but denying it doesn't mean it isn't true.**

A bitter laugh escaped Anders before he continued. **Kill me if you won't tolerate my behavior.** **Destroy me if I am infecting Justice. Do you really think I care if I die?**

The symbiotic relationship between them was slowly devouring them both. Vengeance spoke as much for Anders as for Justice, as loath as Anders was to admit it. But he was learning how to navigate the labyrinth created by the threads that bound him and Justice together. In small ways Anders was beginning to exert control. A part of him believed he would soon master Vengeance and he vowed to strive for that goal at any cost. He felt the gradual shift of power and his belief in himself was beginning to return.

Anders left his clinic, determined to maintain control. He was not going to keep giving in to the darkness that swirled around his soul. Once he had believed himself a good and loving man. He still was somewhere deep inside. He would find that man again. He had to if he hoped to stay in control of Vengeance.

Stepping off the lift, Anders made his way along the streets, hurrying as the sun tried and failed to break through the wall of clouds that gathered above the city. The morning was cold and raw and he knew Annie would be apprehensive. She hated sailing, especially on stormy seas. As soon as he arrived at the docks, doubts began to flood his mind.

_You ever were selfish, Anders. Even I saw that. I fail to understand how Anya could not have seen it as well._

Something inside Anders squirmed at the seed of truth in Justice's words. He had been selfish but not in a mean way. He ignored Justice and continued walking along the wharf's lower levels, remembering Annie as she had been when they had first discovered they loved each other. She had told him, more than once, that he held too much of himself back, only pretending to be open. He had vehemently denied it. He'd been stung by her words, but he knew now how true they were. He would not make the same mistake again should he be given a second chance.

_She is with Stroud, do not approach her._

Anders blinked. He had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't realized they'd arrived at the ship. Without thinking, he slipped around the corner of a building and waited for Stroud to leave, hoping he would do so before the ship set sail.

Maker, she looked so small and vulnerable, standing on the deck, wrapped in her cloak. She clung to the rail as she watched Stroud disappear around the corner of a warehouse. Her hood was back, and Anders saw again the white patch of hair, shorter than the rest. In some indefinable way it made her seem exotic and even more beautiful. He felt the ache in his chest expand. He missed her. He missed her touch, her warmth, her lilting Orlesian voice, her counsel. She had tried to make him a better person, tried to encourage him to strive for loftier goals but he had believed he was content.

He stared at her, trying to get up the courage to wave at her. He knew the instant she caught sight of him. The delicate pink roses that bloomed in her cheeks withered away, leaving her as pale as parchment. Her eyes widened and he saw her hands on the rail flexing as if she was unable to loosen her hold on it. Then she simply shut down.

Of course she was shocked to see him appear out of nowhere. A moment's shock that would abate and then she would grace him with one of her radiant smiles and he would be able to breathe again; to live again; to set down the terrible burden of his guilt. Instead, she turned and walked away without any acknowledgement at all. His heart felt frozen; his mind was numb.

_She has not forgiven us. She has no reason to_. _Let us leave her in peace, Anders._

Justice's words were filled with heartbreak, so human and fragile sounding that it shook Anders to his core. A bitter laugh broke from him and settled heavily in the air. He turned on his heel, furious and hurt. In those moments, as his mind slowly recovered from the shock of her complete rejection, he felt as though he was the demon and Justice was the sympathetic and injured human. He tried to deny it and he almost succeeded.

Anders shivered as the cold wind swept in from the sea.


	12. Glimpses of Another Life

**A/N: **_Gene Dark, Icey Cold and I wrote a story for the Bioware Big Bang about the founding of the Grey Wardens, as told by Riordan and Duncan to a wide-eyed Alistair. __**The Grey Tales**__ is posted under our joint pen-name Genespira Cold and the link to the story is in my profile. And yes, there are griffons in it. ;)_

_Thank you, Lisa, for being such a great beta and for being extremely patient with this chapter! You rock!_

**Glimpses of Another Life**

As Hawke was growing up, Leandra liked to tell people that, although Carver and Bethany were twins by birth, Margaret and Bethany were twins in their temperament. Optimistic and hopeful, they chose to see the good in life. It had always astonished Hawke to hear her mother say that, because she felt cynical and wary now. She could barely remember a time when she hadn't felt that way but now, waiting for the others to meet her on the coast, she closed her eyes and let the memories seep into her.

Her father had taught her how to use magic responsibly. He had also taught her how to hide her abilities when necessary, and they were lessons that had saved her on many occasions. He believed magic should be used for the greater good, never for selfish reasons. He believed in the innate goodness of people even though he had been on the run for most of his adult life. He had tried to instill those beliefs in his children. Bethany was his star pupil.

Growing up constantly on the move had been difficult, but staying in Lothering for so many years had been even more so, in some ways. She'd made friends and had had a life that, while not always easy, had been happy most days. It had broken her heart to leave it all behind, to walk away from the only real ties to Ferelden she'd had, but she had promised her father that she would take care of the family. There were times when she missed that life more than she could express. Even Carver had smiled more frequently in those days; for all that he had often felt like the outsider, like he had no real place in a family of mages, he had still been happier back then. She smiled as she remembered how often he'd been hit with ice and then scalded by a fireball that had exploded a little too close to him for comfort. She missed them all; father, sister, brother.

At least Carver was still alive and, if his new commander had her way, he would visit and write. Hawke hoped they could mend the terrible hole in the fabric of their relationship that Bethany's death had caused. Someday, she promised herself, and then put her thoughts aside as Anders approached.

"Hawke," the mage murmured.

"Anders," she replied quietly, her own greeting restrained by his mood.

She waited for him to say more but he stood with his back to her, gazing out at the turbulent sea. Minutes turned into half an hour of silence as they continued to wait. She felt badly for him and tried to leave him to his thoughts but she finally moved to his side, unsure what she would say.

"Copper for your thoughts," she finally said.

"You're wealthy now, surely you can afford more than that," he replied but without any playfulness in his tone and without turning to look at her.

Hawke's eyes fixed on the man who stared at the sea with a longing that broke her heart. She put a hand out, a tentative gesture of concern, but Anders seemed not to notice. She doubted he knew she was there because he was so deep in thought. There was nothing she could do or say to ease his pain. The misery he felt left its traces in the new threads of grey lacing his hair and the tightness around his eyes.

"Have you eaten today?" she asked finally when the silence became unbearable. "Mother sent along some fresh bread and her apple butter."

"Wh – what?" Anders asked, and Hawke saw the effort he made to focus on her. She moved her hand down to his and squeezed gently before removing it.

"Anders, you can't change anything by starving yourself to death," she chided.

"I – she told you about me, didn't she?" he asked, keeping his eyes on hers. It was difficult for him and she saw his hands clenching with the effort. She tried not to show her unease at the direction the conversation had taken, but she had promised herself she would never lie to him.

"Yes, she did. Carver was concerned," Hawke admitted quietly. She had planned on telling him about Anya's visit, just not yet.

Anders let out a low, mocking laugh. "Of course he was. Why shouldn't he be? I'm a monster. You should be concerned as well, Hawke."

Hawke shook her head. "You need to forgive yourself, Anders."

"Don't you think I've tried? I can't do that until Anya forgives me and she never will."

"You don't know that, Anders. Give her time."

They stood on the shore of the Waking Sea along the Wounded Coast. Waves crashed against the rocks, sending a fine mist into the air. The sun was finally out but there were already clouds gathering in the south, pushed northward by a stiff breeze. Fenris and Varric were meeting them to explore an old slaver's holding pen in a cave. There were rumors that it was in use again and Fenris was determined to close down any and all slaving operations he heard about.

"Give her time? She's already moved on to Nathaniel. Shouldn't that mean she's forgiven me? She's certainly forgotten me," he said, voice tight with bitterness.

Hawke shook her head again. "You left her alone to die, Anders. Forgiveness isn't as simple as you'd like to believe. As for Nathaniel, he was there to help her when she needed someone the most. Of course she fell in love with him. He rescued her and then helped her to heal."

"That sneaky bastard was supposed to be a friend. How could he do that?"

Hawke was surprised by the vehemence in his voice, even more shocked by the sentiment expressed. Somehow he seemed to have forgotten his culpability in the events that had transpired. "Perhaps he forgot that friendship in his concern for the woman you nearly killed?" she asked, trying to keep any accusations out of her tone and almost succeeding.

She watched Anders closely, her nerves tensing as she began to internally gather her mana in case she needed to protect herself. His face went blank, his eyes glazing over as if he was in a trance. She mentally reached through the Veil into the Fade, shaping a paralyzing spell. She needn't have bothered. His glazed eyes filled with tears.

"You're right, you're so right. I – I just miss her," he wept, covering his face with his hands as his shoulders shook.

Hawke put an arm around his shoulders and tried to comfort him, any unease gone in the face of his very real pain. "Have you apologized? Told her how sorry you are for what happened?"

"She won't even look at me, how can I possibly make her listen to me?" he asked in a voice broken and full of despair.

"Write her a letter. I'll include it in mine, if you like," Hawke offered and then immediately regretted it. Varric was always teasing her about her soft heart and how much trouble she got into because of it, but she didn't rescind the offer, merely squeezed his shoulder and stepped back, passing him a clean white handkerchief.

Before more could be said, Varric and Fenris arrived. They had obviously been teasing each other as Varric was grinning and Fenris wore a half-smile that quickly faded when he caught sight of them. Hawke offered both men a warm greeting.

"I'm going up ahead to scout. You long-legged types give me a few minutes," Varric muttered.

Apparently the overtones were more than he could bear, Hawke thought. She didn't blame him. She felt like she'd been caught in one of the tidal whirlpools that were prevalent along the Wounded Coast.

There were long moments of uncomfortable silence. Finally, Hawke spoke up, trying to lighten the charged atmosphere. "Hopefully this is just a rumor and we won't find any slavers here."

Silence fell again as both men continued to ignore each other. Finally Anders spoke up. "I don't understand why you always hunt slavers but won'thelp the mages. You should want to help the mages. You've been a slave, you know what it's like to be held against your will," he accused Fenris.

Hawke tensed as Fenris folded his arms across his chest and glowered. Why had Anders said anything? What had made him suddenly launch into a lecture about mages and slavery?

"You and Justice know the plight of the slaves as well as I do, yet you do nothing to help them. Where is your spirit's virtue now then?"

"We fight one battle at a time! Let me ask you this, Fenris: if the slavers came for Hawke, would you fight for her?"

"Of course," Fenris replied heatedly.

"And if the templars came for Hawke, you wouldn't let them take her either, would you?" Anders baited sarcastically.

Hawke wished she had gone with Varric to scout out the path ahead because the path the conversation had taken was fraught with peril. She started to speak, but Fenris, his expression tight with anger, spoke first.

"That is an entirely different matter. You know my history and still you persist with this notion that the situation of the mages and the slaves are the same. Mages cannot be trusted with their power, with one notable exception." Fenris looked pointedly at Hawke who didn't know whether to smile with relief or box his ears for taking so long to acknowledge he didn't consider her a danger.

"I can be trusted with my power as well as Hawke can! And I've seen you reach into a man's chest and crush his heart, so don't you dare talk to me about who can be trusted with power, you hypocrite!"

"And I have seen you reduce a group of templars to a smoldering heap, twisted beyond recognition, simply for doing their duty. You aren't to be trusted, don't even presume otherwise."

Hawke felt a ripple in the Veil as power began to swirl and gather. She knew she wasn't responsible for it and looked at Anders. He was rigid with fury, his face twisted and cold. Soon he would lose himself again. Without thinking of the repercussions, she stepped between the two men.

"That's enough from both of you! You will never agree on this subject, you both know it, so why must you continue arguing about it? Please, just stop provoking each other."

The two men glared at each other for long moments and the air was thick with mistrust and anger but the rippling had subsided. The feel of powerful forces gathering receded. Minutes ticked by and Hawke searched frantically for something to say to ease the tension.

Finally, Anders gave her a cheeky grin. "I love it when you get all bossy with us."

Hawke shivered and cast a quick glance at Fenris, who shook his head but stayed silent and watchful. There was something strange about both the tone and words that Anders had spoken. They rolled effortlessly off his tongue and it seemed as though they had a special meaning but she had never heard them before.

Her unease grew as silence settled again, broken only when Varric returned with his report. "Those weren't rumors, in case anyone thought otherwise," the dwarf commented. "Bianca and I are good to go, as long as the broody elf stays in front."

"I don't brood," Fenris argued, moving to take point.

Hawke and Varric laughed at that pronouncement. "You are the king of broodiness, the emperor of angst, my friend," Varric replied, winking at Hawke. She smiled, feeling a bit lighter.

"And here I thought it was just me who noticed that," Anders chimed in with far less venom than usual.

Hawke glanced back at him, surprised to see he wore a smile and seemed more relaxed. The smile eased the tension in his face, making him look boyish and handsome. She thought she might be seeing the man that Anya Caron had loved, the man he used to be and she smiled at him.

It was a rare glimpse at who he could be again if he learned to control the demons that plagued his mind and the spirit that held him hostage.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The two men squared off, slowly circling each other. Chests and fists bare, they eyed each other, wary and watchful. The sun was bright and warm as they stood in the training yard. Nathaniel could already feel the sweat beginning to form on his brows. A group of Wardens and soldiers ringed the yard and Nathaniel heard the bets being made. He smiled grimly as he waited for Carver to make the first move.

The first time Nathaniel had fought bare fisted, he had been twelve and his brother, Thomas, had been ten. Their father had bet a group of local minor nobles that Thomas, stockier and more tenacious than Nathaniel, would win. Nathaniel had always been a disappointment to his father, or so Rendon said frequently. He was happier reading, hunting, learning archery, things Rendon considered too soft for a Howe. Thomas was a scrapper, always fighting with the local boys, usually winning.

Nathaniel had fought off the tears when his brother came at him, swinging his fists and landing blows on Nathaniel's cheek and nose. Blood had gushed from his nose, pouring down his face and choking him. In a blind rage of hurt and anger, he had lashed out and beat Thomas with both fists. When Thomas fell to the ground, trying to protect himself from the blows, Nathaniel fell on top of him, screaming his rage and continuing to hit Thomas. It wasn't until their father pulled him away that he finally uncurled his fists and realized what he'd done. His father had cuffed Thomas, telling him he had shamed him in front of others and then he had done the same to Nathaniel, reminding him what a bitter disappointment he was.

After that, the bouts became monthly and they weren't always with Thomas. Once he had fought "Ox" Temmerly and been beaten so badly a healer had to be called in to try and fix his nose, broken so badly he couldn't breathe through it at all. It was a surprise visit from Bryce and Fergus Cousland that finally put a stop to those brawls. The teyrn had been furious and disgusted by the sight of a fifteen-year old Nathaniel fighting a local farmer's lad four years his senior. Nathaniel had been bruised and battered, dazed by a punch to his temple when Bryce had called a halt to the fight. Rendon had been furious but Nathaniel had been grateful.

There were times when Nathaniel still felt the stinging shame and humiliation of those days; when something triggered a memory and left him feeling like an animal not fit to be in human company. But now was not the time for such memories and he pushed them away, bouncing lightly on his feet, watching the young man before him do the same. Now was the time to answer the challenge issued by the new recruit.

Caver was taller, broader and stronger than Nathaniel but those very things made him slower as well. Nathaniel was light and quick on his feet. The trick, he knew, was to come in swiftly, hit with sharp jabs before dancing away. He watched Carver carefully and saw his eyes flick to the left and back again. Nathaniel came in, going right, and then spun to the left, catching Carver in the gut with a quick jab before spinning away again. Carver's uppercut went wide and while he was recovering, Nathaniel danced in, catching the corner of Carver's chin with a hard half-cut that sent Carver's head snapping back.

"You bastard," Carver growled and moved in, catching Nathaniel with a jab of his own.

Nathaniel staggered back and then once more danced on the balls of his feet, ducking and dodging as he came in with a series of butterfly punches to the stomach. Sweat was trickling down his back in sticky rivulets and stinging his eyes. His knuckles were split where they had connected with Carver's chin. He watched Carver and knew he was not about to give up the fight. Nathaniel danced in again and they exchanged a flurry of punches before Nathaniel moved back, panting. His right eye was swelling but Carver was in worse shape. Both men were slowing down and Carver's jabs were falling short of their mark as often as they connected. Following another exchange of blows_, _and another, and both men were gasping for breath, bodies soaked in sweat.

Once more dancing in, Nathaniel ended the fight with a blow to the young man's jaw. Carver went sprawling and held up a hand. "Enough," he conceded.

Nathaniel offered Carver a hand up and waved Sarhal over to tend to their wounds. She was currently the Warden's only healer at the Vigil and she was unhappy with both men, judging from her expression. Somewhere inside him, he thought he heard his father's voice mocking him for being too soft on the young man. He blinked and the voice was gone.

Sigrun came up to him and laughed. "I don't want to be you if Anya finds out you were fighting one of the new recruits."

"As long as she comes home, I don't care," he gasped, hands on his knees as he tried to draw breath into his lungs.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Jader hadn't changed in the seven years since she had taken her Joining there. The two-story stone building where the sub-commander and senior Wardens were housed was still surrounded by mulberry bushes and boxwoods, trimmed and tidy. The wooden barracks wore the same whitewash and gleamed in the sunshine. A large oak stood sentry at the walled garden, tall and majestic. The only thing missing was Riordan, who had become her mentor in the Wardens and she closed her eyes for a minute, pushing the sorrow away. He had died fighting the Archdemon, a death worthy of a Warden.

She was greeted by several old friends, as well as Effron, the Sub-Commander of Jader, before being shown to a small sitting room. She stared out of the small window, waiting impatiently for Alain Fremont, Empress Celene's envoy. She was anxious to return to Ferelden on a ship setting sail with the morning tide.

"Welcome, Warden Commander Caron," a lightly-accented voice said from behind her.

Her heart slammed into her chest and a tide of joy rushed into her blood. She spun on her heel and hurried to the man with her skipping gait, throwing her arms around him, laughing happily.

"What are you doing here, Raoul? How are Mama and Papa? Is Fremont not here?"

Her brother, blue eyes as dark as hers, shook his head. "This man who did this to you, tell me he is dead, Poppet."

Maker, she hadn't been called that in years. She was immediately returned to her childhood. She had been born and raised in the _Palais de Dirigeant_ in Val Royeaux. Her room, done in pale pinks and pastel blues, faced the large parade grounds where the chevaliers formed each morning for their inspection and their daily orders. The sound of their feet marching in cadence, with the low hum of the drill marshal commanding them, had been stirring and she had sat in her window, wishing to be like them, with their shiny armor and finely-made swords.

Each morning her father came out to speak with his men. They were inspiring speeches that Anya memorized, reciting them in her room as she practiced marching. He cared deeply about his men and often stopped to talk to them individually. Each morning before returning to his offices, he would look up and offer her a bow. She would tip her head, as she had been taught, before giggling happily.

She had always planned on becoming a chevalier. She began training with the sword-master when she was ten, hiding the fact from her father who believed her role was to marry a young nobleman and raise children. Raoul had been her co-conspirator, helping her sneak out and train when her father was busy with his work. Raoul was already assured of his place in Empress Celene's personal guard by then, even though he was barely fourteen.

When her father finally caught her training one morning, he was furious and demanded she stop playing at being a soldier. She was to continue her lessons on how to run her own chateau. He thought Charles de Berengher would be the perfect husband and was busy arranging the match. By then she was an accomplished swordswoman at the tender age of thirteen. She begged her father to allow her to continue and he finally consented, but only after extracting a promise that she would always wear heavy gloves to protect her slender, white hands and continue learning how to run a large household. She spent more and more time mastering the sword and dagger and less and less on learning how to run a household.

There had been no marriage. Charles de Berengher was killed in a duel after he'd been caught in a dalliance with a married woman. Anya had begged to join the chevaliers and her brother had championed her cause at her side. Her mother had wept and her father had raged and in the end, Anya ran off to join the Grey Wardens. By the time her parents had found her, she had already taken her Joining and there was nothing to be done but accept her choice.

Her father had done so with more grace than she'd expected. He confessed that he had always known his fierce young daughter would grow up to be a warrior. He was proud of her for following her own path. Her mother was less forgiving, heartbroken that her only daughter would not bear children of her own. Giselle Caron mourned the life her daughter could have had, should have had; balls, routs, a life at court among the dignitaries, perhaps as a lady-in-waiting to her cousin, Empress Celene. All the things Anya had never cared about and never wanted.

As a peace offering, and in the hope that her mother would forgive her, Anya accepted an assignment with the Grey Wardens of Val Royeaux. She took up residence in their compound near the Grand Imperial Palace because Cousin Celene had insisted and no Commander of the Grey of Orlais could get away with disobeying one of Empress Celene's requests. She had not minded, riding out in the field with her fellow Wardens at every opportunity and making a name for herself among their ranks.

"So? Is the culprit dead?" Raoul asked impatiently. She returned to the present and blinked.

"It is a Grey Warden matter and has been dealt with," she replied quietly.

"Well, listen to you, Poppet, all grown up and so commanding. Where's the girl with the scraped knees and scraggly braids?"

"The same place as the chubby boy with the freckles," she responded with a laugh. She hugged him again. "How is Sherise? And how are my nieces and nephews?"

They spent an hour exchanging news and Raoul astutely guessed there was a special man in her life. "He is a fellow Warden, my Second, actually. His father was Arl Rendon Howe, the Arl of Amaranthine."

"Do you love him?"

"With my whole heart," she replied.

"Good, then I won't have to duel him to defend your honor," he teased, reaching over to ruffle her hair as if she was still a child. She slapped his hand away with another laugh.

"Now, where is Alain Fremont and why are you here in Jader?" she asked finally.

"He's dead, Anya. I've come in his place."

There was a moment of silence and she felt a stab of shock, her brain scrambling. "How did he die?"

"He was murdered in his own apartments within the Imperial Palace."

Fear crawled along Anya's spine and settled in her heart.


	13. Darkness

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for the awesome beta job!_

**Darkness **

"Fenris, you need to talk about this," Hawke urged quietly. She reached out to touch him, to let him know he didn't need to carry the bitterness and hurt on his own. His rejection was immediate and Hawke felt a sharp stab of pain as he shrugged away from her touch. Her hand fell to her side and she stared at him, bracing for the storm. His face was twisted by the force of his emotion and he looked like a dangerous stranger in the dim light of the cave.

"No, I don't need to talk about this. Talking won't change a thing. How I feel has never mattered. All that matters is that I finally crushed that bitch's heart."

Each word he spoke was wreathed in the bitterness he felt and colored by a hatred of his past. He looked almost feral in the shadowed light of flickering torches. Her heart ached for him. How could she get him to understand that talking _did _help? That how he felt _was_ relevant? Her hands clenched at her sides as she sought the right words, but Fenris spoke first.

"Magic taints everything it touches. Mages corrupt everything around them."

Hurt and anger flooded into her, hot pinpricks in her blood, as she listened to his vitriol. She loved him. Why couldn't that be enough? "I'm a mage, Fenris, lest you have forgotten," she replied, her hurt masked by the ice in her words. "And you have never complained when I healed your wounds or protected the others with my magic. Yet for all that, am I just another cursed mage to you?"

Fenris leaned towards her and she fought against her overwhelming need to shrink away from him. She would not allow the tears of frustration and hurt to fall. She wouldn't allow it, but Maker, it was difficult. His lyrium markings hummed and glowed, sending her magic dancing along her thoughts, tracing along her nerves.

"Do not," he bit out. "Do not defend mages to me. I have seen what they are capable of. I have seen how twisted their souls are, how empty."

He turned, stalking away, swallowed by the darkness of the cave. Her heart felt blistered by his anger, her thoughts fractured by the pain of his rejection.

"Come on, Hawke, let's get out of here. I need a drink," Varric muttered, shouldering Bianca.

Hawke nodded. "You want to join us, Anders?" she asked only to realize Anders was gone as well. Sighing, she forced her lips to curve into a smile. "What is it about me that drives men away?" she joked, striving for a light note.

"Hey, what am I?" Varric asked, puffing his chest out.

"The only man worthy of me," she replied with a poor attempt at a smile. Together they made their way out of the cave and into the fading sunlight.

Long golden rays, limned in scarlet, appeared to set the waves on fire as the sun continued its blazing descent into the Waking Sea. The underbellies of low hanging clouds glowed bright orange, reflecting the sun's glory. Hawke paused to take in the breathtaking display, hoping the beauty of the scene would burn away her hurt. The pain eased slightly, allowing her to breathe again.

"Give him time, Hawke. He'll come around."

"Give him time? How many years do I have to waste on that scruffy, prickly elf before I figure out he's never going to let go of his prejudices?" she asked, but her anger no longer strangled her and she was able to offer her friend a genuine smile.

Varric held his hands up, counting his fingers, and then shrugged. "I figure it this way, Hawke. Time's relative. He spent a lot of years hating mages. It's going to take a lot of years to change."

"That's what I love about you, Varric. You always know just what to say to cheer me up," she grumbled good-naturedly as they followed the path back towards Kirkwall.

"It's a gift. I'll do anything to keep you from tears. You know how much I hate those."

Night was creeping inexorably into the city as they made their way to the Hanged Man. Long shadows danced ahead of them as they walked the nearly-deserted streets. Disappointment rippled through her when they entered the Hanged Man and Fenris wasn't at their usual table. Some part of her had hoped that he would unbend enough to join them for their customary evening drink, but his stiff-necked pride and anger made him a martyr more often than not.

"To the Void with him," she muttered.

"We'll drink to that," Anders agreed, coming to sit beside her. He grinned and patted her hand. "Don't worry, Hawke. He's an arse, but he's a predictable arse."

Disappointment gave way to a shiver of unease. Why was he speaking like that? Why was he so bloody cheerful and who was the 'we' he kept referencing? Did he mean Justice? Or was Justice the one talking? Was she watching Anders slip into madness? Or was the madness just becoming more apparent?

Suddenly all she wanted was to be home, to be alone with her jumbled thoughts and wounded heart. Or was it, she wondered, her ego that was wounded? It mattered little which of them was wounded, she reflected, the pain was the same. Pushing aside her half-empty mug, she stood.

"Let me walk you home, Hawke. You know as well as I do that the streets here aren't safe," Varric offered but she shook her head.

"I'm a mage. I think I can handle it," she responded dryly.

She was aware that Varric had sent some of his 'friends' to follow her. She didn't need to turn around to know that they were there, just beyond the periphery of her vision, clinging to the shadows and waiting to rescue her should she need it.

Tensions eased with each step she took. Anders, for all that he was unstable, was right about Fenris. His temper was predictable and when his anger cooled he would come around and ask her forgiveness. When he came to apologize she would have to decide if she would forgive him this time.

Would she be able to set aside the growing knot of hurt that seemed as much a part of her as her bone and flesh? Would she finally give voice to the anger inside her? She had never really done so before, fearing it would drive him away for good but now, standing alone in her bedroom, she realized it was about time he learned how much hurt she carried inside her because of his bitterness.

He was waiting for her when she arrived. She stumbled in surprise.

"Hawke, I must apologize for my earlier anger."

How many times had he said those very words to her? How many more times would he say them before she no longer accepted them? Anger leapt to life, fiery sparks that heated her words.

"Do you really despise all mages, Fenris? Do you truly believe all mages are corrupt and that magic spoils everything it touches? If so, we have nothing else to say to each other. You can't get over your mistrust of mages and I can't live with your bitterness."

She watched the battle rage within Fenris as he tried to grasp what she was saying. Biddable Margaret Hawke had finally found her anger and she wasn't about to relinquish it in order to make Fenris feel better.

"Do not do this, Hawke."

There was pain in his voice, a vulnerability she had not heard before. She felt her anger soften and blur, but she wouldn't allow it to dissipate entirely. "Do not do what, Fenris? Do not speak of how you treat me? Do not force you to face the darkness within you? Do not compel you to look at how your words are as sharp as your sword? Do not…"

But she never finished her angry tumble of words because Fenris pulled her into his arms, his lips finding hers in a rough, raw kiss. His lips moved with bruising force against hers and his tattoos glowed, humming with energy. Her magic stirred, dancing along her nerves in reply.

There was a violent tenderness in his kiss, a dangerous passion that awakened her desire. Desperate need flared hotly, a consuming fire that caught at the edges of her reason, burning away everything else, leaving only this man and this moment.

He pulled back and she saw, in that rare, unguarded moment, the want in his eyes, the primal need. He picked her up effortlessly, as if she was thistledown. With a feral growl, he kicked open the door and mounted the stairs as she continued to kiss him, to trace his lyrium tattoos on his chin with her lips and tongue.

"Where?" he demanded and she pointed to the door directly in front of them.

There was no need for light. The darkness was illuminated by the soft blue from his lyrium tattoos and her magic as it enveloped them. Her heart soared, her mind joining it, as need became the master of them both.

**~~~oOo~~~**

A log on the fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. It was the only sound in the room as Anya digested her brother's news. The silence descended again, so deep, so still, that she felt as though she could hear her blood rushing through her veins. Her heart was beating erratically in her chest, whispering her fear with each beat.

"You haven't apprehended the murderer, I take it?" she finally managed to ask around a thick tongue.

"I don't suppose we ever will. As is the way of such things, the murderer is no doubt dead as well," Raoul replied. He sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair, a signal carried over from childhood that he was agitated. He gave her a wry smile when he caught her watching the gesture.

"You've put yourself at risk, meeting me here. Sherise will not thank either of us for it."

"Sherise understands my first duty is to Empress Celene. She was nervous, of course, but I sent her and the children to stay with Mother and Father at the _Palais de Dirigeant_. Let someone infiltrate that fortress, if they dare.

"And," he continued with a gloomy smile, "as far as everyone at court is concerned, I am visiting Perendale and Andoral's Reach to ensure the treaty with Nevarra is being upheld. Theophilus travels in my stead, in the company of only my most trusted men. His resemblance to me is uncanny and will fool most."

Brave words spoken with grim promise, Anya thought, but a well-placed bard could strike from the shadows of even the most secure fortress. Alain Fremont had been a very cautious and well-protected man but it hadn't stopped a killer from assassinating him. She didn't voice her thoughts. Her brother was not foolish. He understood the risks and, as the commander of the chevaliers, her father was equally aware of the dangers.

"What scheme has been conceived that would lead to one of Celene's private staff being murdered?" she asked, once again breaking the silence.

"The stakes are higher than Celene let on in her letter, Anya. She suspects cousin Etienne is consorting with Anora Mac Tir in the hope of a coup within Celene's court. He wants to reclaim Ferelden and to that end he is plotting with Anora. He has promised she will be the regent of Ferelden when it has been reclaimed."

Nerves tickled her stomach, made the hair on her arms rise. Her mind was racing, picking through an obstacle course of rampant thoughts and half-remembered gossip. Surely this was the product of an overactive imagination on Celene's part? Etienne had always pandered to Celene and some claimed it was in the hope that she would marry him. At the age of thirty-three, Celene seemed quite content to remain single and thus hold all the power. Most puzzling was how someone had convinced Anora Mac Tir to betray Ferelden.

"The Dowager Queen of Ferelden? But I thought she was cloistered within the confines of the Grand Cathedral? I thought the Divine gave her sanctuary there, with the understanding that the former queen would relinquish all claims to the throne of Ferelden. How is it possible that Etienne is plotting with her under the Divine's nose? And why would Anora allow Orlesian occupation again? Her father spent his life first defeating the Orlesians and then defending the borders against further attempts at reclaiming Ferelden. Are you sure this isn't just Celene seeing things that aren't there?"

Raoul smiled softly. "Hatred twists even the most devoted of people, Anya. Surely I do not need to remind you of that. You spent six years among the nobles and witnessed it firsthand. Anora's love for her father and Ferelden are outweighed by her hatred of Alistair and Celene. To see them both destroyed she is willing to compromise her principles. I am sure she justifies such action as necessary for the good of Ferelden. Better to be annexed to Orlais than destroyed at the hands of Alistair."

Anya stood, stretching her aching hip. She paced stiffly, arms folded tightly as her thoughts continued to swirl chaotically. "Why does she hate the man who saved Ferelden during the Blight?"

"You know why, Poppet. Alistair beheaded her beloved father in front of the entire Landsmeet. She witnessed Loghain being humbled before the nation he loved, and she was bathed in his blood when Alistair refused to show mercy or allow Loghain to join the Grey Wardens. In her mind, Alistair is a traitor and a bastard and her hatred for him is deep, I am sure."

"By default she hates Celene? Oh Maker, Raoul. She doesn't know about the negotiations between Celene and King Cailan, does she?" Anya asked, dismay crowding into her jumbled emotions. "I warned Celene it was a foolish and dangerous risk to take."

She paused again, glaring at Raoul as if daring him to defend their monarch. She put her hands on her hips and waited for him to do just that and she wasn't disappointed.

"Don't blame me, Sister. I told her much the same thing. King Cailan was handsome and kind. She sought a marriage that would strengthen both nations."

"Celene wanted to marry Cailan to stop the talk here at home that she was becoming too old to bear children. She chose the most childish man in all of Thedas as her future husband for only one reason: he would be easily controlled by her. Don't seek to gloss over what an idiotic notion it was, or pretend that it was some noble gesture on Celene's part," Anya seethed.

Her brother's face darkened and red stained his high cheekbones. "Do not speak of her in such disparaging terms, Anya. She is not only our cousin but our empress and you will show her the respect her title deserves," he demanded angrily.

"I will not. She is not my monarch, Raoul. I have no monarch. I am a Grey Warden, lest you have forgotten," Anya shot back, standing straight and proud.

Defiantly, she gave voice to her anger. "She opened herself up to this scheme of Etienne's and now she insists that I help her put an end to it. I am the Warden Commander of Ferelden and my duties are to the Wardens under that command, to the First Warden."

"Yes, Celene thought you would say as much. I am to tell you that First Warden Magnus, who is himself originally from Orlais, extends every courtesy to her and offers whatever aid necessary to protect her throne."

"I – I don't believe it. How could he do that? How could you allow her to subvert the first rule of the Grey Wardens like that? We remain neutral, damn her arrogance and damn his nationalistic pride."

"Do you really think it was all happenstance? You becoming Arlessa Anya and Warden Commander Gerald Flaneur obtaining a seat on the Imperial Council? These were carefully planned appointments, Anya. Do not be so naïve."

But she was naïve. She was a fool. It had never occurred to her that her appointment was a political move on the part of Magnus and Celene. How had they talked Alistair into it? He had granted the arling to the Wardens immediately following the death of Aedan Cousland. He must have known that whoever assumed the leadership of the Ferelden Wardens would be a foreigner. Had Riordan been involved in that decision? Maker, she was still a child when it came to her belief that people weren't so manipulative and cunning.

Pity shone in Raoul's eyes and she hated to see it, hated the situation she had allowed herself to be in. She was a naïve fool and not just in political matters. She had been a naïve fool with Anders as well. She had allowed herself to believe that he loved her and would do nothing to hurt her. Tears formed and she blinked them back furiously. She would not allow her brother any more reason to pity her, damn him.

Anya stumbled backwards and sank onto the settee, feeling as though her breath was being pushed out of her lungs by the weight that settled in her chest. There was nothing she could do except swallow the bitter pill he'd handed her and pretend it didn't hurt as much as it did.

"What is it you require of me?" she finally asked.

"Warn King Alistair that there is one very close to him who shelters a viper. He also needs to draw up a formal request to bring Anora Mac Tir back to Ferelden to be hung for treason against the crown."

"The Divine will not release her, Raoul, not without just cause, and Alistair won't ask for her extradition without proof of her treason," she argued. "Now, who is this viper you mention?"

But she thought she might already know who the viper was. She closed her eyes and massaged her temples, where a headache had formed and continued to grow throughout the conversation.

"I'm sorry, Poppet. Truly I am," Raoul said quietly. He came and settled beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders.

"It isn't your fault that I'm an idiot."

"You aren't an idiot, Anya. You believe the good in everyone. You've always been that way. That's not a fault."

"It is, in my position," she argued grimly.

Raoul didn't answer and silence descended once again. Shadows from the corners stretched across the room, darkness eating at the light as the fire died. She made no move to stoke the fire.

_Let it die, for darkness reigns_. The words came unexpectedly to settle in her thoughts. They were the words of an Orlesian poet, Rendev Martine, who had written them during the fourth Blight, when the skies roiled with black clouds and the Archdemon reigned over most of Thedas, a poem of hopelessness and despair. With Ferelden still recovering from the ravages of the fifth Blight, the world was already falling into old patterns of power and corruption.

She sat beside Raoul, listening to the silence, letting her mind wander. Had she been a naïve fool about Nathaniel as well? The thought kept fighting to the surface and she kept pushing it away.

Her heart had betrayed her once before. Had it done so again? She refused to believe it.

**~~~oOo~~~**

_There is a great darkness coming, Anders. You must prepare for it. _

**Do you mean death? Because if that's the darkness, I welcome it.**

_You do not mean that._

**Don't I? You took everything away from me that I ever cared about.**

_You have ever blamed others for your failings, Anders. What you hid from others you cannot hide from me._

Anders raised shaking fingers to his temples and rubbed gently to dispel a headache that was forming. If only he could just as easily dispel the truth in Justice's words.

_Are you going to write to Anya?_

There was such a tender note in Justice's voice as he spoke her name. Anders shivered at the thought of a spirit with human feelings. He should have realized before merging with Justice that he had already been exposed to human emotions and feelings and was therefore not a true spirit.

_You knew, Anders. You heard them in my questions, in my desire to understand. You chose to merge despite that knowledge. You say it was to help a friend but the truth lies bare now; your truth, as well as mine. Now write to Anya and ask her to forgive us. Do what you know is just and honorable._

Rebellious and dismissive, Anders instead removed his robes and slipped into a pair of breeches and a soft linen shirt. He washed his face and hands, removed the leather strip that held his hair back and then curled up on the narrow cot. Sleep refused to come and with a huff, Anders flung the covers back and groped for the lamp on the rickety table that was the only other piece of furniture in his room. Pulling out a small knife, he sharpened a quill and dipped it in ink. The blank vellum seemed to mock him as he tried to find the right words.

_Dear Annie,_

_I know I have no right to call you 'Annie' now, but in my heart you'll always be Annie. I don't know where to start or how to make amends for everything I've done to you. If I could go back and choose a different path, I would. Maker, I would, Annie. _

_I'm sorry. I should have trusted you. I should have obeyed your order not to merge with Justice. I never was any good at obeying orders, was I? I could blame years of being in the Circle, obeying orders from both the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander, but blame doesn't change what I did to you, does it? _

_Justice frequently tells me how selfish I am. I deny it, of course. I'm Anders, a healer, someone who gives to others. I remember how often you would thank me for being such a caring and giving person. Now you've seen the real me, the darkness that's inside me. Maker, I had no idea how deep this anger went; how dark it is. I have always hated the way mages were treated, but I didn't realize how that hatred had stained my soul. _

_I hope one day you'll forgive me. I hope one day you'll remember only the joy we shared and not the pain I caused. I miss you, Annie. You were my light and without your guidance I feel lost. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of you and miss you._

_Finally, Annie, I hope one day we meet again; one day when we can both look at each other without the pain._

_I want to wish you and Nathaniel happiness and joy, I truly do. I want to._

_Anders._

He folded the letter and sealed it before turning down the lamp and crawling back into his bed. Justice remained silent and Anders was thankful for that small mercy.

There was a peace in him as he lay in the darkness waiting for sleep to claim him.


	14. Illumination

**A/N: **_My deepest thanks to Lisa for being such a great beta. Your suggestions were spot on!_  
><em>My continuing thanks to all those who are reading, be you lurkers or be you reviewers. <em>

**Illumination**

"Well, that's disappointing. You get the lady of your dreams and you sit around looking all gloomy."

Nathaniel looked up from the document he had been trying to focus on for the past hour and gave Sigrun a disgruntled look. "I'm not gloomy," he said, rubbing his tired eyes.

His sleep the night before had been broken by bad dreams and even worse thoughts. How long before Anya realized she had made a mistake in saying she loved him? How long before she left him because she saw the darkness in him? Questions without answers that refused to be silent.

"Right. I can see that now. Biggest damned smile I've ever seen on your ugly face," she agreed cheerfully, coming into the room and perching on the arm of a chair. She flashed a bright smile at him.

Nathaniel forced his lips to tilt upward. "Better?"

Sigrun gave a shiver before shaking her head. "That's the scariest thing I've seen since Oghren insisted on dancing that jig in one of Felsi's gowns."

Nathaniel quirked a brow at that. "Thanks, Sigrun. Remind me never to ask for your opinion again."

"Oh, you wanted me to lie? Why didn't you say so? Great smile, Nate. I've never seen you look happier. Actually, that part is true. You may not be grinning like a love-struck puppy, but you seem a whole lot more relaxed and even faintly happy around the edges."

A reluctant chuckle escaped Nathaniel and he finally pushed the paperwork aside. "I'm still not convinced it wasn't a dream. Everything happened so fast. One minute we were arguing and the next we were jumping off a cliff."

"Well that's one way to woo a girl. It sounds like one of those bawdy romances in the library. You're happy, she's happy. One big, happy dream come true."

Sigrun didn't understand how right, and how wrong, she was. Nathaniel's thoughts kept going back to the night he and Anya had shared and there was a dreamlike quality to those memories. He had the vague feeling that it wasn't real, that somehow it was just one more dream that would evaporate in the harsh light of day.

Happiness was not something he really trusted. His experiences had taught him that happiness often became twisted or lost. How long would it take for Anya to see the darkness that stained his soul? How long before happiness was once again swallowed by the shadows? Relentless questions pounded at his brain.

"For now," he said quietly.

"You're absolutely right, Nate. There's nothing worse than being happy. I know I'd run away from it just as fast as my stumpy little legs could carry me."

"Happiness can betray you, turn on you. Look at Anders. He loved Anya and claimed to be happy. It didn't stop him from nearly killing her, did it?"

"Ancestor's tits! Do you hear yourself? Woe is you. Except Anya didn't betray Anders, so what makes you so sure she'll betray you? You morose moron!"

Nathaniel flinched at the vehemence in her tone. She was disgusted and angry and that triggered something in him, some memory that brought words tumbling out of his mouth that he had never wanted to acknowledge existed.

"My father found happiness in inflicting pain and misery on others. He found happiness in betraying the honor of a noble family. He was happiest when he was murdering and torturing.

"My brother found happiness in whoring and drinking. He brought shame and degradation wherever he went and he died on a battlefield, drunk and abandoned by his men.

"My mother tried to protect us, shield us from Father's machinations but she couldn't. He told us she died in her sleep. Heart problems, Father claimed. Shortly after, I was sent to the Free Marches and I was grateful to get away. But, even now, I wonder if she killed herself or if my father killed her.

"So you'll pardon me if I don't believe that happiness is anything more than an illusion or wishful thinking; that Anya will…"

Nathaniel trailed off, disgusted with himself at the amount of vitriol in his diatribe, and angry that he had said anything at all. Shame and hurt gnawed at him and he wanted nothing more than to be alone, to give himself the privacy he needed in order to shove those thoughts back into the deepest recesses of his mind.

"Oh Nate, do you really think Annie will leave you? Break your heart?"

"I'm done talking."

"Good_,_ because you're just spewing swill anyway. You've loved Anya almost from the moment she let your sorry ass out of that cell. You finally have her and what do you do? Celebrate? No, you piss and moan about things that you can't change. Listen, and listen carefully, you nughumper. You have a chance to accept happiness and love and let it clear away the poison of the past. Take it. Enjoy every minute of it while you can because _life_ is fleeting, not happiness."

Sigrun glared at him, her bright blue eyes narrowed, her chin jutting at a stubborn angle. Nathaniel clamped his jaws together, refusing to speak the words that crept along his tongue. He knew Sigrun had not had an easy life; that she had seen things far worse than he had_, _but he wanted to tell her trusting in others, in happiness, was for fools.

"Whatever happened before with others doesn't mean squat because we're talking about Annie. You saved her, and, when you did that, you set her free from her bitterness. So let her do the same for you, you ass."

Nathaniel's muscles tensed under the onslaught of her words and the conviction behind them. How could he explain to Sigrun that he wasn't sure he could survive losing Anya? That he was afraid to trust in himself? He scrubbed at his face, pushing his thoughts aside.

Was Sigrun right? Her words whispered in his mind, echoed in his heart. He closed his eyes, remembering Anya's whispered words, the last she had spoken to him before he'd left. She loved him and he had to believe she meant it; he had heard it in the sweetness of her words.

Maybe Sigrun _was_ right. Maybe it was time to let go of the burdens of his past and allow Anya to illuminate the darkness within him. He _wanted_ to believe, because the thought of life without Anya made him feel physically ill. His muscles eased and he gave her a quick half-smile.

"For a dead woman, you have a remarkable gift for seeing the best in life."

He watched as a flush of pleasure reddened Sigrun's cheeks. "Ah, you sweet-talker," she teased. Standing, she added, "Come on, then."

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to show Carver how to hunt darkspawn."

Killing something – anything – sounded like a fine idea.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Motes of dust drifted in the weak light, small bright sparks that swirled gently on currents of air. Anders watched them from his cot, comfortably drowsy. He had slept deeply, with neither darkspawn nightmares nor images of Anya tormenting him. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so rested.

Memories floated in his mind, hazy and soft. A memory of a morning, not unlike the one he currently enjoyed, with Annie curled against his side, her head resting on his chest. He closed his eyes, remembering a time when he allowed himself to be content…

"_Do you ever miss Orlais? Or are you glad to finally be in a land where there are real men rather than prancing dandies?" _

_He felt Anya's smile against his skin and his arm tightened around her. Making her smile brought his own ready smile to his lips. _

"_I miss it very much. Ferelden is beautiful, but it is a rugged, untamed __beauty,_ _much like its people. Orlais is refined and genteel. To an outsider it would seem__ pastoral and placid, but the heart of Orlais, the soul of its people, is Val Royeaux. There is nothing pastoral or placid about the city. It is grand and imposing, full of intrigue. It is mysterious, and even those of us who were born there never discover all its secrets."_

_She sighed and nestled into him again, a long leg draped over his. He absently stroked small circles along her thigh. She was soft and, even though she had the scars of battle, her skin was silk beneath his fingers. _

"_Perhaps one day I can show you my homeland."_

"_Do Wardens get time off?" Anders asked, feigning surprise. He reveled in the tickling sensation of her soft laughter as it ghosted across his skin._

"_A discussion we have had many times, Anders. I think you're just afraid to meet my father."_

"_He's the head of the most feared warriors in all of Thedas. What's not to be afraid of?"_

"_Coward. Although," she continued with a lilt of laughter in her voice, "people say I have his temper."_

_Anders chuckled. She did have a temper_,_ but it was offset by her humor and willingness to admit when she was wrong. He pulled her closer and rested his chin on the crown of her head. _

"_So tell me, Anya Caron, what one thing would you most like to show me when we go to Val Royeaux?"_

"_Without hesitation it must be the Light of the Maker," she responded with a confidence in her voice that he envied. _

_She was always so sure of herself and she spoke without hesitation, with such assurance. __He pretended to be that confident, but Anya had seen through that mask very early on__. It was one of the things that he'd found most attractive about her, and most intimidating. _

"_So_, _the rumors are true that the Maker resides in Orlais?" he teased, provoking another gust of soft laughter to flutter against his chest. _

"_Of course. Thedas revolves around Orlais. I thought everyone knew that. It is, after all, the home of the Divine."_

_Anders snorted. He had once been a devout Andrastian, but that belief had been stripped away as he witnessed the injustices perpetrated by the Chantry in the name of the Maker and his Bride. Now, he knew the Chantry only as an oppressive and hypocritical organization that had the most powerful army in Thedas to enforce its tyrannical laws and beliefs._

"_So, what is this Light of the Maker that makes you speak in hushed reverence?" _

"_In the Grand Cathedral there is a magnificent stained glass window, created by a master artist named Gespar Lucette. Each morning_,_ sunlight filters through the window as the sun rises, piercing the darkness in the Cathedral. A single shaft of light illuminates the main altar, bathing it in a golden light, as if the Maker came and touched the altar, to let his presence be known. A great many people from all across Thedas make the pilgrimage to witness it. Whether one believes in the Maker or not, it is a magnificent display. Even you, I think, would appreciate the beauty of it, Anders."_

_The cynic in him wanted to explain it was just one more way the Chantry exerted control over the faithful masses. It was a deliberate design to keep people awed and humbled. It was nothing more than a theatrical trick. The words of Andraste, the words of the canticles, all of it, were just ways to subjugate mankind and, most especially, mages. _

"_I look forward to seeing it, Annie," he finally replied, pushing his thoughts away and finding comfort in her lips…_

His eyes opened slowly, unwillingly. For long moments he had been back at Vigil's Keep and life had still been full of dreams, of possibilities. So many promises they had made and so many he had broken. He glanced at the letter and allowed himself to hope.

_She will not forgive us, will she?_

**Sure, she will. She's got a forgiving nature.**

_We should not be forgiven so easily. What we did to her was unjust._

**Now's a bad time to figure that out, Justice. Too bad the demon in you didn't think of the consequences sooner.**

Anders hadn't meant to sound glib and sarcastic. Retribution was swift. A stab of white hot pain began in his head and flowed through him, bringing him to his knees. An unwilling groan escaped from his mouth and he pressed his hands to his temples, as if that would stop the pain. His breathing came in labored spurts that hurt almost as much as the twisting magic that pulsed through his body.

_**You will remember what we seek; freedom for all mages. We will exact vengeance on those who have held them enslaved for centuries. **_

_Be silent, demon!_

**No, Justice, don't! **

Anders felt the ground beneath his knees tilt and the room darkened ominously. Panic flitted along his nerves to settle with fluttering wings in his stomach. Intense icy heat gripped his heart, squeezing. He pitched forward with a low growl of pain, and was swallowed by the looming darkness.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Hawke blinked and sat up slowly, her body pleasantly sore from the previous night. She smiled as she saw Fenris, standing with his back to her. It was barely light outside but he was already dressed and had rekindled the fire. He rested one hand on the mantle and she could tell from his posture that he was deep in thought.

"Good morning," she said quietly.

"Hawke," he began_, _and there was something in his voice that made her stomach sink.

"Fenris, what is it?"

Standing, she padded overto him, resting a light hand on his back and looking into his face, searching for an answer. He looked tired and his expression was bleak, as if the inner light she had seen the night before had been extinguished.

"I can't do this, Hawke."

Moving her hand from his back to trace the lyrium tattoos on his chin, she gently tilted his chin until their eyes met. "You can't? Or you won't?" she asked quietly.

"I don't wish to talk about it."

"I _do_ wish to talk about it, to talk about us. Fenris, we _need_ to talk about it."

"And if I don't want to talk about it?" he asked, glaring at her with cold eyes.

"I suppose you think you can just keep running, Fenris, but sooner or later whatever you're running from catches up to you."

Fenris removed her fingers from his chin and began to stride about the room with the grace of an agitated feline. She watched, struck again by how delicately he was built, but also by how powerful he was. Their lovemaking had been the same curious combination of grace and strength and she found herself wanting nothing more than to take his hand and lead him back to bed, to once again trace his tattoos with loving fingers and feel his mouth on hers.

She blinked away the longing and tried to focus on what to say. If she didn't find the right words, she would lose him. He would walk away from her. Anger and panic warred within her and yet she knew either would send him away that much quicker. She took a deep breath.

"Most people reach for happiness with both hands, Fenris. They don't throw it away in order to prove to themselves they aren't worthy of it. Or are you so afraid of being happy that you would willingly cast it aside?"

Fenris stopped pacing and in two steps he was standing before her, eyes glittering. For a moment she thought she saw tears in them. He shook his head and seemed to struggle for words. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with emotion.

"You don't understand," he began and cleared his throat. "You offer words, yet you don't understand, Hawke."

"I want to, Fenris. I'm trying to. Help me understand."

He was silent, staring at her as if he could will the knowledge into her head but he didn't speak. If he wasn't afraid of happiness, if he didn't think himself unworthy of happiness, then why did he want to run away from it? The answer swept in and she felt a pang of guilt that she hadn't seen it sooner. She reached out a hand and gently brushed his hair away from his face. Her fear left her. The terrible uncertainty she had felt moments before receded.

"You don't know how to be happy, do you? You've never had the chance to learn."

His face tightened and he moved away from her touch as if it had scalded him. She knew an argument was inevitable, and she accepted that. What she wouldn't do was accept his walking away.

"I don't need your pity," he said coldly.

"No, you don't. Nor do you have it."

He looked startled by her pronouncement and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "That's good, then."

"You certainly spend a great deal of time running," she remarked, trying to keep her voice light.

"Don't even presume to know what my life has been like!" he snapped as his markings began to glow faintly.

Hawke felt her magic begin to stir in response. "Why? Are you afraid I'm right? Are you scared I might destroy all those walls you've built around yourself?"

"Why must you continue with this argument?"

He paced in long, jerky steps as if his grace and composure had both deserted him. Hawke hesitated, feeling as if she was standing on a knife's edge. If she pushed him too hard, he would leave, but if she didn't push him hard enough, he was just as likely to leave. Either way would cut deeply.

"This should never have happened," he said, shaking his head. "I was a fool to think otherwise."

"You say that but offer no reason why it shouldn't have happened. So tell me, Fenris, why is it a mistake? Why are you a fool to think otherwise?" she taunted softly.

His anger became a visible glow of blue tracing along his tattoos and she had to fight to keep from shrinking away. She mentally braced herself for his explosion.

"You ask me why? You are a mage, Hawke! You are everything I've spent a lifetime hating! You represent the pain and humiliation I suffered at Danarius's hands!

"If that isn't reason enough, you are also a well-respected and wealthy woman in Kirkwall. I am a former slave. I am an elf. I am nothing. No, I am less than nothing!" he yelled.

"That's your belief! It isn't my belief!" she yelled back at him, moving to stand within inches of him, despite the anger that radiated from him, making him appear feral and dangerous.

"Yes, I am a mage, Fenris. But, I am a responsible mage. Never once have I hurt you with magic, never once have I used it to control anyone. I am not a blood mage. I am not a magister. I am only trying to do as my father did before me: use magic to help people.

"Should I hate you because you have the ability to rip my heart out? Should I despise you because your life of slavery was different than my life of slavery? Your bitterness is the problem, Fenris, _not _my being a mage and _not_ my status."

He was silent, staring at the fire. She knew a battle was raging within him and her heart begged him to push the bitterness out and allow her love to take its place. She would do anything in her power to ease his pain, but he had to relinquish it first.

She was breathing heavily, as if she'd been running. Tears were perilously close to falling. They danced on her lashes and her throat and eyes stung with the effort of holding them back.

"Fenris, please, listen to yourself. If you truly don't care, why stay here and argue?"

"Festis bei umo canavarum," he growled furiously.

"Nonsense. You keep saying that and yet, here you are. Clearly, I will not be the death of you," she retorted impatiently.

"Hawke," he warned, his hands clenching into fists.

"You have as much right to happiness as any other living being, Fenris. If you don't allow yourself to believe that, how can you ever accept happiness when it is offered?"

"Enough! Why is my happiness so important to you?"

Why? Was he really that blind? Everyone else in Kirkwall surely had guessed that she loved him. How could he not know? She let out a hiss of frustration. He frowned and began to say something but she shook her head, trying to gather her thoughts.

Fenris bent and poked at the fire, his movements stiff and angry. She wondered what he would do if she stamped her foot and howled her aggravation. The thought made her smile briefly; a watery reflection of her emotional state.

Her tears pooled and she brushed at them. Maker's breath, she was a fool. But if he was ever going to learn to love her, she had to be honest with him. She took a deep breath and then another. Her hands shook and her knees were weak.

"Because I'm happiest when I'm with you, you idiot," she whispered, shaking her head. "As long as you run from happiness, you will never be able to love."

Her pride was shredded as she allowed her feelings to come pouring out of her. "I can't wait to see you each day, and the minute you are gone, I miss you. I want to share in the joy of watching the sun setting over the Waking Sea. I want to reach out and touch you and know that I won't be rejected for doing so. I want to be able to curl up against you in the middle of the night and feel your warmth. I want you beside me when I wake up from a bad dream, and in touching you, know that I'm safe." Her tears were sliding down her cheeks, dripping off her like crystal beads.

"Do not do that," he pleaded and there was desperation in his voice. "Do not cry!"

"You don't have the right to tell me not to do anything, Fenris. You won't stay. You won't talk about it. You think this is all some horrible mistake. You have no right to tell me not to cry!"

"I don't wish to fight," he said and there was confusion in his voice. There was also a faint hint of something else. Longing.

"Talk to me and we won't," she assured him, sniffing away the last of her tears. "Just tell me what you truly want. Do you even know?"

Silence fell and she watched the fire, afraid to look at him. She didn't want to see the rejection she feared would be there. Instead she held her breath, waiting.

"I don't know how to let this hatred go. It has been with me for so long that it feels as though it is etched into my soul. I don't know how to accept anything else." Infinite sadness touched each word.

"Then let me teach you, Fenris. Stay with me and learn," she offered softly.

Tentatively, fearing he would scorn her touch, she reached shaking fingers up to caress his face, to let him know she would be there with him, and that she wanted his happiness just as much as she wanted her own. She wanted him to know he was not alone and that his pain could be shared with her; that it would ease his burden. Instead, she waited quietly. Those words could wait.

He stiffened at her touch and made a small sound of disapproval but she refused to remove her fingers. Minutes turned into a kind of torture as she waited, her fingers trembling against the heat of his cheeks.

With a sigh, he leaned into her touch and closed his eyes. Her heart swelled as she watched the tension ease out of him. How could someone not know _how_ to be happy? It didn't matter. If he was willing to learn, she was willing to teach him.

Once again, silence settled between them and she let it, feeling the first gentle rays of hope begin to shine within her. She found she could be patient because her heart believed in him.

"You're teaching me to read. Shouldn't that be enough?" he finally asked, his voice gruff.

"Are we keeping score?" she teased with a trembling smile. "You've saved my life countless times, so teaching you to read or to laugh seems little enough," she added.

She leaned forward, brushing her lips softly against the grim set of his mouth. His lips moved against hers with a rough tenderness that robbed her of her breath. A timeless moment when there was no tension, no fear, no hurt. Finally, hearing the sounds of the household stirring, they pulled apart.

"Repay me that way, and I'll teach you anything you want."

"You are an odd woman," he said gravely, but she saw the hint of a smile in his expression.

"Also a happy one."

"For now. We'll see how quickly that changes," he replied dryly.

"Pessimist."

He stepped back again, his expression somber.

"I won't stay here with you."

"I know, and I won't stay in that rat-infested flophouse you live in, either."

"There are no rats in my house," he protested, offended. He was the picture of wounded pride and Hawke found it difficult to stifle her grin.

"Oh, right. I suppose they could just be extremely large mice."

His laughter lit up his face and touched her heart.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The _Eos_ was small and compact, square-rigged with a curved bow. The captain, showing her to a private cabin, claimed he would have her in Amaranthine in four days, if the winds were favorable. She hoped so. She missed Sigrun and Varel and her Wardens. She had work to do and wanted to put the distasteful business with Celene behind her as quickly as possible.

Making her way back up to the main deck, she admitted to herself that she missed Nathaniel most of all. A flutter in her stomach tickled her as she remembered their night together.

"Don't forget to write, Poppet!" Raoul called from the dock.

She raised a hand and grinned. "You first, Brother! You owe me at least one!"

Raoul threw his head back and laughed. "Come visit soon, Anya, and when you do, bring your man with you."

A blush crept up to her cheeks, which she blamed on the rising wind, and she shook her head at her brother. "You can always come to Vigil's Keep, Raoul!"

With a small jolt, the ship pushed away from the dock and its colorful sails unfurled to catch the wind. She waved at her brother who bowed, low and with a great flourish, before he turned and walked briskly to his horse.

Hours passed slowly as she watched the water flow around the curved bow. A young man, already bronzed and weathered from years at sea, came and asked her to join the captain for the evening meal. She looked down at her plain dress and the tips of her serviceable boots that peeked out from beneath pale grey wool.

"I'm hardly dressed to share a meal with the captain," she protested politely.

"He don't rightly care a snap for such, Arlessa Anya, him being a Ferelden man," the sailor replied as if that explained everything. "He told me to fetch you and so I have."

Seeing no graceful way out, she finally nodded and followed the man along the gently pitching deck and then down a narrow ladder. He introduced himself as Breck, and told her he was from Highever. He ushered her into the captain's sparse quarters and left.

The captain stood and bowed slightly, his brown eyes warm and welcoming. He motioned for her to sit, and, when she had, he sat across from her, offering to pour her a glass of wine. She accepted with alacrity.

The captain was kind and his real purpose in asking her to join him was to explain the problems facing Amaranthine ships plying the waters of the Waking Sea. It seemed raiders were intent on sinking any ship flying the colors of Amaranthine.

"Why would they do such a thing?" she asked, but she suspected she already knew why.

Someone didn't want Ferelden to prosper. Amaranthine ships were filled with grains and the fruits and vegetables of the Bannorn and arling. Money was flowing into Ferelden and the lands that had been ravaged by civil war and the Blight were already beginning to heal and rebuild.

The real question was who wanted Ferelden to remain impoverished. Etienne would not like that. As the nation prospered, armies would be rebuilt. That would make it very difficult for Etienne to conquer Ferelden. But he was not the only one, she suspected. Other nations would also see Ferelden as an easy conquest. Her new country was rich in farmland and minerals.

Anya smiled. "You don't need to spare my feelings, Captain Alder. If you suspect Orlais is behind it, you are free to express your opinion."

Deep red penetrated the layers of tanned, weathered skin on the captain's face. "I don't mean any disrespect in thinking that, Arlessa Anya. Seems it could be any number of others. It might be that Kirkwall or Ostwick are feeling a pinch in their pockets now that we're sailing again. We've got the fastest fleet of ships on the seas and there's plenty who might just want the ships, rather than the cargo."

Anya nodded but she suspected otherwise. The most logical conclusion was that Etienne's men had hired raiders to destroy Amaranthine ships. "Have you heard anything else? Where these raiders put to port? Or where they most often attack the Amaranthine vessels?"

"No, but I'll see what I can find out."

"When you discover anything, let me know immediately."

After the meal, she excused herself and went directly to her cabin to sort through her jumbled thoughts. It was a bold move if Etienne was behind the acts of piracy.

If it wasn't him, who would stand to gain the most from such an action? Was there more than one Orlesian plot to retake Ferelden? Was it one of the city states? Nevarra? Did they want to use Ferelden as a staging area to conquer Orlais? That seemed unlikely but not impossible. She wondered if Michah Pentaghast was still the Nevarran Ambassador to Ferelden.

She knew next to nothing about the city states in the Free Marches and cursed herself for not paying more attention to the history lessons her tutor had insisted upon. But Nathaniel would certainly know a great deal about them, especially Kirkwall and Markham.

A sigh of discontent broke the silence of her cabin and she stood to pace the room. She loved her brother and Celene, but she was not about to become a pawn in a political gambit. She had never enjoyed her time at court and she had never had a desire to play the games that the other nobles played. They assumed she would meekly do as they bid, and she had, much to her dismay.

She stopped her restless pacing. Their assumptions might prove to be her salvation. With Nathaniel's knowledge of the Free Marches and her knowledge of how to play the Grand Game, she might be able to disentangle herself from the mess that had been dumped into her lap so unceremoniously. She would have to find a way to do so that would allow both Celene and Raoul to save face. She would, she realized, have to enlist the aid of King Alistair and possibly call in some favors among her fellow Warden Commanders. Had Gerald Flaneur fallen in with Celene's plans? How many other Wardens were involved_, _and to what extent?

Her lamp tilted and flared before sputtering and dying, throwing her cabin into darkness. The ship creaked under the force of a quickening wind and she heard the low rumble of thunder, so deep and close that it reverberated through her. She fumbled for her cloak and felt her way to the door.

The wind was howling and the storm clouds gathered thickly above them. The sea was dark and waves slammed against the wooden hull of the _Eos_. Lightning illuminated the ship and Anya gripped the rails as the ship plunged and rocked. She was vaguely aware of sailors running to carry out orders that Captain Alder called out, his voice rising above the fevered pitch of the storm.

"Captain says not to worry none, Commander Anya. Says ta tell ya we've weathered worse," came a voice from beside her. She turned and smiled at Breck, the young sailor she had met earlier. His hair was plastered to his head, his eyes narrowed against the rain.

Anya laughed as the salt spray stung her face. The tempest surrounded her and she reveled in its power, drawing strength from it. The storm would not best this ship and its captain. The Grand Game would not best her. Another laugh escaped her, carried away by the shrieking wind. She wouldn't enjoy the game, but, by the Maker, she would not let it defeat her.

"As have I!" she called above the roar of waves pounding the ship. "As have I."


	15. Masks

**A/N: **_Thank you to all the readers, both those lurking and those reviewing!  
>And a special thanks to Lisa for her awesome beta skills and her friendship.<em>

**Masks**

Anders stood on a promontory overlooking the curving coastline below him. The day was wild, the wind pushing at him_, _but he braced his feet, arms stretched out, relishing the rain that lashed him in torrents. Thunder rumbled, deep and angry, and lightning slashed across the turbulent skies. He raised his face, allowing the rain to sluice over his skin, cleansing it, cleansing him.

No voices in his head, no eyes constantly watching him, he stood alone. The only sound was that of the raging storm and in those moments, he felt alive. Joy swept in on the wind and settled in his heart, an old friend he'd thought was lost to him. It wouldn't last, he accepted that, but in those moments, it fueled his hope. He let out a long cry, a primal shout of freedom that was swallowed by the crashing surf below him. For the moment he was in control and he felt invincible, every bit as powerful as the storm that buffeted him.

As he stood, embracing the storm, he had only one thought. Annie. The woman he had loved because she had liberated him from a life on the run as an apostate. A ragged laugh was torn from him to dance with the wind before being swallowed by a rolling echo of thunder.

She had liberated him and yet here he was, once more an apostate on the run, and worse. He was as near an abomination as it was possible to be; indeed, many would argue that he was. She had given him a gift and he had taken it willingly, selfishly, without ever giving it a thought. Justice, it seemed, was right: he was a selfish bastard, and he had squandered the only meaningful gift he had ever received.

The time for regret was over. He knew that. What had been done, what _he_ had done, could not be undone. As much as he wanted to, there was nothing he could do to make amends. All he could do was try to tame the beast within him and continue helping the people in Darktown. It would have to be enough.

As the rain tapered off, he shivered, slowly becoming aware of how wet and cold he was. The euphoria was dying with the storm, leaving him weary.

_Is it your desire to become ill?_

Anders didn't answer. What he thought and felt was there for Justice to see and feel; he didn't need to voice it.

_Giving all mages the freedom Anya gave you is worth the price we must pay, Anders._

**That's easy for you to say, Justice. I don't think you'll die when they kill me, will you? You'll just find another host; willing or unwilling.**

_**Listen to yourself, Anders. All this self-pity does you no good and we are tired of it. **_

**No, you aren't, Vengeance. You feed on it. You feed on all my darker emotions. Without them, you wouldn't even exist.**

_It is not wise to upset him, Anders. Calm your mind._

Anders drew air deeply into his lungs and let his thoughts calm. Another deep breath, and another, and soon his memories receded. He smiled triumphantly. He was learning. He would master Vengeance, even if he couldn't remove him.

He turned and started back towards the others. They were setting up camp in some tumbled down ruins that provided shelter against the elements. They had spent the entire day searching for a lost patrol of Qunari at the request of the Arishok. Viscount Dumar had asked Hawke to appease the leader of the Qunari, who had taken a liking to the woman.

Anders couldn't understand why she felt obligated to help the weak-willed Viscount of Kirkwall. He was ineffectual and blind to the real dangers threatening the city. The Qunari would leave eventually, but the Templars, and in particular, Knight-Commander Meredith posed the real threat.

The Grand Cleric was no better than Dumar; sitting in her glass tower, ignoring the deep schisms that were forming between the nobles and the poor, as well as the Templars and the mages. She was allowing Meredith to do whatever she wanted with regard to the mages. There would come a day of reckoning, of that there could be no doubt.

Tension began to coil at the base of his neck as he hurried along through the rough scrub and brush. Something had changed between Fenris and Margaret. He wasn't sure what it was, but there was something different in the looks they exchanged. The thought of Hawke taking the elf to her bed made Anders ill. She deserved better than the twisted, mage-hating, ex-slave.

_Do you see yourself as the better man? _

**I don't have any interest in her in that way. But she deserves a good man, not someone who has so much hatred in him.**

_**She is a means to an end, nothing more. Do not concern yourself with her. **_

Anders stopped outside the ruins and scrubbed his face with his hands. Vengeance was right. There were things that needed to be put into place and Hawke was the one person who could keep the Templars from interfering. He shook the water off his robe and continued on, a cheerful smile curving his mouth upwards.

"What is it about shelter you don't understand, Blondie?" Varric asked as he warmed himself by the fire.

"I needed some herbs, Dwarf. Those bruises of yours don't just disappear on a whim."

Hawke, kneeling by the fire and stirring something in a small pot, looked up and gave him a smile. "He thinks he's invincible, that he truly is the stone of his ancestors," she teased.

"We'll just have to remind him to leave the thinking to the experts," Anders replied, puffing out his chest.

"Don't you believe it, Mage. If it wasn't for my wit and wisdom, you'd be lost most of the time," Varric retorted, buffing his nails on the lapel of his coat.

"I'm starving. What are we eating tonight?" Anders asked, rolling his eyes at the dwarf.

"Salted pork and a handful of barley. We used to call this a poor man's stew in Lothering. We had it more often than I care to remember," Hawke responded with a chuckle.

"You'd think the mighty Hawke could afford better fare, but my stomach's so hungry I could even eat Varric's left boot and be happy."

"Keep your hands off my boots, Blondie. They're only a little behind Bianca in their importance."

Laughter filled the ruins as they gathered around the pot of stew.

Anders almost felt guilty at how relieved and relaxed Hawke appeared to be, at how easy it was to deceive them all. Under cover of a yawn, he glanced at Fenris, who was watching him through narrowed eyes.

_**The elf will cause trouble if he becomes suspicious. He will have to be eliminated if that happens. **_

"Anders, are you alright?" Hawke asked with quiet concern.

Anders blinked and then allowed himself to grin. "Never better, Hawke."

**~~~oOo~~~**

Brandel's Reach, the large, rocky island north of Amaranthine, was looming in _to_ the northeast as the ship sailed into the Amaranthine Channel. Anya felt the beat of wings in her blood. The sea was cerulean with foamy white bonnets, mirroring the sky above it. The wind, tangy with salt and seaweed, and alive with the boisterous screeching of gulls, whipped the sails. She would be home soon and she smiled at the thought. It had only been thirteen days but it seemed much longer since she had lastseen Nathaniel.

As the ship made its way south of the island, Anya wondered who lived on Brandel's Reach and the other smaller island to the east. Were they part of the Highever Teyrnir? Part of the Arling of Amaranthine? She couldn't remember ever seeing the island listed on her holdings, or on the census rosters.

Brandel's Reach, in particular, looked inhospitable. Rocky outcrops and stunted trees, gnarled and bent by years of wind, dotted the landscape. There were large areas of sea grass, blown nearly flat and dull ochre in color. Even the rocks had a dark umber appearance and there was little else in the way of color on the island. She frowned, peering across the dazzling water, convinced that she had seen movement of some kind on the rocky shore. Were there inhabitants on the island?

She looked away and saw the jewel of the arling, Amaranthine, approaching. Faint wisps of smoke rose from the many chimneys silhouetted against the bright blue sky, dark grey fingers reaching for the heavens. The pale grey watchtowers, connected by thick walls, took shape as they neared the city. If she closed her eyes she could almost smell the rich pine scent of hearth fires in the cool air.

"Good morning, Arlessa Anya. We should put to port in less than an hour, Maker willing and if the wind obeys."

"Tell me, Captain Alder, does anyone actually live on Brandel's Reach?"

"That island's nothing more than a haven for raiders. There were small settlements long ago, or so some have claimed, and a hardscrabble life it must have been. There's naught but mud, rock and caves there now."

"Brandel's Reach is part of Ferelden, isn't it? Why has the army not routed these raiders?"

"A question many a ship's captain has asked, Arlessa Anya."

She was surprised that watchtowers hadn't been built on the island, especially after the Orlesian occupation. Ferelden was surrounded on three sides by water. The Orlesian invasion forces had arrived by sea, to devastating effect. Logic dictated any invasion of Ferelden would come by sea.

It would be simple enough for ships, traveling alone, or even in small groups, to gather north of Brandel's Reach. Doing so over a period of time they wouldgo unremarked upon by those watching the sea lanes from West Hills and Highever. Within a few weeks they could sweep into Amaranthine too late for the city to mount more than an ineffectual defense.

"Is it possible the raiders who are attacking Amaranthine's ships come from the island?"

"It's possible, sure, but the larger raiding ships can't dock anywhere on the island that I know of. There aren't any deep water ports, at least not that I've heard of. But I've never explored enough to know that for certain. Nor do I plan on it. A miserable place, by all accounts."

"I think it is time I send some men to see what's there," Anya said with quiet authority.

"That'd be welcome, Arlessa, that it would."

If there were raiders living on the island, and especially if the raiders were connected to Etienne in some way, they needed to be routed. A military presence would have to be established on the island and she couldn't fathom why Teyrn Cousland had not insisted on that himself. She would have to speak to him, as well as King Alistair, after she had sent her soldiers to investigate. It was one more item to add to her growing list of tasks. It only made sense for the islands to be fortified. She was sure that both men would agree once she told them about Anora and Etienne's plot.

As they entered the sheltered harbor, Anya's eyes scanned the bustling crowds on the dock. The ship edged along the quay and sailors called to each other as they began to secure the ship. Anya's stomach fluttered like a nervous bird. Her heart knocked anxiously in her chest.

It was foolish to think he would know she was aboard the _Eos_. How could he? Still, her eyes continued searching the quayside. She paced the deck, anxiously waiting for the gangplank to be set into place. Breck approached her, carrying her pack and a small leather valise. He touched his forelock with a grin.

"Be happy ta carry it off for you, Arlessa Anya."

"Thank you, Breck, but I can manage," she replied, once again looking out at the crowd of dockworkers and merchants gathered on the pier.

Her eyes widened and her heart skittered across her chest so quickly it left her breathless. Nathaniel, standing back from the crowd, nodded to her. Even across the distance, she saw how set his face was; how impersonal his expression. Her heart, once skittering, sank to rest heavily in her stomach. Was he regretting their time together? Had he decided their relationship was a mistake? She smoothed her hair back with shaking fingers and then forced herself to shoulder her pack and grip her valise before stepping toward the gangplank. She halted, so filled with anxiety that she couldn't take the next step.

Captain Alder appeared again, taking her elbow and guiding her off the ship, and she was grateful to have his steadying hand. Her sea legs, combined with her limp, prevented any grace at all and she felt a wave of self-conscious heat flood her cheeks.

"I want to thank you for your interest and concern, Arlessa Anya. I'll send word should I learn anything more about the raiders," Captain Alder said warmly and then, with a quick bow, he was gone, leaving her alone in the crowd.

She took a steadying breath and straightened her shoulders. If Nathaniel regretted the time they'd been together or was distressed because he had allowed himself to admit his feelings, she was not going to let it lay her low. Nor would she make it easier for him. She took a step and then another and before she had completely regained her composure, she was standing in front of him.

"Commander Anya," he said in neutral tones, bowing stiffly. "You've returned."

She wanted to box his ears in that moment. She wanted to throw herself in his arms and be swept away by the passion they had shared not two weeks prior. Instead_, _she tilted her head in acknowledgement and when he reached to take her valise, she gripped it more tightly.

"I can manage, thank you, Warden Nathaniel," she said coolly.

"If it pleases you, Commander."

She ground her teeth together. What would please her was for him to drop the mask of cool disinterest and welcome her with open arms. What would please her was for him to smile and acknowledge that he'd missed her as much as she had missed him.

He wove his way through the bustling market district, careful to keep his pace slow enough for her to limp along beside him. Was that it? Had it finally dawned on him that her body was impossibly twisted and scarred? Was he repulsed by that? Had he decided that because he was a Ferelden and she was an Orlesian that she was beneath him? Maker's breath, what had changed in so short a period of time?

People were greeting them as they walked to the small building that Anya had ordered built for the Grey Wardens; a stable for their horses when necessary. At the time it had seemed an extravagance but it had proven quite useful.

Anya smiled automatically, calling many of the townspeople by name. She was faintly surprised by how many faces she knew and how many greeted her with friendly smiles. Nathaniel's mask of cool neutrality remained fixed as he acknowledged the people he had known most of his life.

At last, they reached the stables and he opened the door, motioning for her to enter. As soon as the door swung shut behind them, leaving them in semi-darkness, Nathaniel gave a low growl and pulled her into his arms, his mouth finding hers for a kiss that awakened every nerve in her body as his lips hungrily moved against hers

He took the pack from her and the valise fell from her lifeless fingers. His hands skimmed along her waist and his knee insinuated itself between her thighs. Her shoulders and back made contact with the wooden planks of the wall behind her and still the kiss continued; an endless kiss, sizzling along her nerves, taking her breath away and making her forget everything but that moment.

Finally_,_ he broke the kiss and stood back, his breath ragged and his grey eyes heavy-lidded. She reached out and let a fingertip run along his full, sensuous lower lip. Her own lips felt both bruised and bereft. Relief and confusion warred with her desire to pull him back into her arms for another kiss.

"I missed you," he said in a low, husky voice before nipping at her finger.

Her blood pooled and warmed before murmuring through her veins languorously. She would be content to spend the rest of the day in his arms, regardless of where they were.

"Well I wouldn't have guessed that from your earlier greeting," she retorted with a wry smile.

It dawned on her, as she let her fingers trace the contours of his face, that he had greeted her so formally to protect her reputation as the arlessa. His cool indifference had been a mask worn to keep prying eyes from seeing their new relationship. He was allowing her to decide if she wanted the people of her arling to know she was with the son of the Snake, as many still called Rendon Howe.

"Oh, Nathaniel, you don't need to protect me," she chided tenderly.

He touched his forehead to hers. "You've worked hard to establish trust with these people, Anya. I won't be the cause of your losing it."

"Someday I hope you realize that these people don't see you as an extension of your father. They see an honorable man who has done a great deal to help the city and the arling overcome the ravages left behind by Rendon Howe's perfidy."

His laugh was short and sharp; dismissive. "Don't be naïve, Anya. People's loyalties are fluid and nobody knows that better than I."

Anya shook her head and rested her hands on his shoulders. "Whatever you think, Nathaniel, I'm proud and honored to walk by your side. If someone takes umbrage at that then it's their failing, not mine, and certainly not yours."

He moved away, reaching down to retrieve her pack. "Let's get back to the Vigil."

"I want to be with you, Nathaniel, and I don't care who knows it."

He spun around. The pack hit the ground with a soft thud as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her again, his tongue sweeping along her lips until she opened her mouth and allowed it to tangle with her own. She felt his groan vibrate through her as her fingers combed through his hair. Finally, he broke away again, his uneven breathing matching hers.

"We'd best make haste before I throw you down on that pile of hay," he said gruffly.

Anya glanced at the pile of hay and grinned. "I wouldn't mind but I suspect that might raise a few eyebrows among the nearby residents because I can't promise to be quiet."

Nathaniel gave a ragged laugh as he moved to saddle their horses. She gave her large black courser an affectionate pat. Nicodemus neighed, bumping her shoulder playfully. She wished she had a treat for him but he didn't seem to mind as he snorted gently at her.

"I'm quite capable of saddling my own horse," she remarked, enjoying the sight of Nathaniel's lean muscles stretching and tightening as he fastened the cinch.

"Yes, I'm well aware of that, but I'm much quicker at it."

Anya raised an eyebrow at that but he was focused on his task and didn't see it. "How did you know to meet the ship?"

Nathaniel glanced up at her, looking faintly self-conscious. "I've been staying with Delilah for the past three days and meeting every boat that's docked."

Anya leaned down to cup his cheek and he captured her hand in his, moving it to his lips and kissing her palm. Whatever else she had planned on saying was lost to the sensation of his lips gliding along her palm and up to her wrist.

"I – I think we should hurry," she whispered as desire set her blood aflame.

"A wise idea," he replied, his voice husky.

He stood and strapped her pack onto the back of her saddle before tying her valise to his. They led their horses out of the stable and only then did she think to ask where the young stable-hand was.

"He was with me on the docks. As soon as I saw you I sent him to Delilah's so he could let her know I would be returning to the Vigil with you. I told him to have a meal while he was there."

She thought she saw the hint of color in his cheeks but decided she must be imagining it because Nathaniel Howe did not blush. Still, her smile refused to leave her as he helped her into the saddle. Once she was seated, he mounted and pulled up beside her, so close that their legs brushed against each other.

"Home?" he asked.

"Yes, home," she responded.

Without caring who saw the gesture, she leaned over and let her lips brush lightly against his.

"You really don't understand subtlety, do you?" he asked as she straightened.

"Understand? Yes. Believe it is necessary in this case? Absolutely not."

**~~~oOo~~~**

He watched her covertly as they gathered at the long trestle table for the dinner. She was talking with Sigrun. Their heads were bent close as they talked and their voices were soft and filled with laughter. There was no artifice in her; her face was open and her eyes clear and honest.

She was unlike other women he had known; women who hid behind false promises and empty lies. He felt his patience slip and stumble. He wanted to be in her arms, to take her and be swept away. He swallowed and tried to restore his customary aloofness.

"I believe your hair is on fire," Varel said calmly.

Nate blinked and turned to find Varel's eyes on him, a dry smile skittering across the older man's face. "Did you just lie to me, Varel?"

"Only in the interest of your appetite, Warden Nathaniel. Your roast venison is cold."

"I prefer it that way."

"Just so, Warden Nathaniel. Shall I suggest the cook serve it cold from now on?"

"She looks rested," Nathaniel said softly, watching as Anya turned to talk to Sarhal and ignoring Varel's smug teasing.

"She looks happy. A curious turn of events."

Nathaniel looked at his friend, one of the few men in his life who had neither disappointed nor betrayed him. "Curious, indeed."

"I believe I have won the wager," Varel continued, his smile once again flashing quickly across his features.

Nathaniel felt the blood leave his face. "I didn't accept that wager."

"It seems one of us has a faulty memory, Warden."

A wager concocted in Varel's devious mind and one that Nathaniel had ignored. They had been sharing a bottle of whiskey, discussing the newest recruits, when Varel had turned to him and wagered that Anya would reciprocate Nathaniel's feelings if he ever had the courage to demonstrate them. Nathaniel had refused to accept the conditions of the wager and felt it demeaned Anya.

Nathaniel blinked and let out a small groan. He had finally consented, three glasses later.

"Another night, perhaps."

"As you wish, Warden Nathaniel. As long as the wager is paid in full."

How had he let himself be talked into serenading Anya? The color that had left him earlier returned with a rush of heat to his cheeks. He should have known better than to drink with Varel. The man had a bottomless stomach and alcohol affected him no more than water did.

"I'll honor the terms of the wager, old man, don't worry," he muttered and shifted in his seat. Of all the idiotic things to have agreed to.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't mention that wager to anyone," he added.

"As you wish."

Anya stood and cleared her throat. Twenty-two pairs of eyes focused on her as she began to speak, lifting her charged glass. "I am honored by your welcome and delighted to be home. I raise my glass to the finest Wardens in Thedas: ever vigilant, ever family."

The toast echoed in the great hall as every warden repeated the personal motto of the Ferelden Grey; a motto that she had added to the Grey Warden banners and tabards because she believed those four words with her whole heart. The Grey Wardens of Ferelden were her family and she was not afraid to show the men and women under her command that she cared.

He smiled as he tipped his glass back. In an hour, or less if he was lucky, they would be alone. The hours had dragged by as they had ridden back to the Vigil. Talking had been impossible, but he had spent as much time glancing at her as he had the road home. As soon as they had arrived, she was surrounded by her Wardens and he had stood back, watching as they each greeted her. She had been whisked away to view the new training schedule, the recruitment records and all the things she had missed in her absence. Several times he'd had to remind himself that he was a patient man.

She glanced up at him and smiled, before returning to her discussion with Dawber, one of their newest recruits, a shield warrior with a lopsided smile and a tuft of bright blonde hair. Carver joined in and Nathaniel was relieved to see that the young man was keeping a civil tongue in his head.

Since their return, the young man had carved out a niche for himself, becoming friends with Dawber and several other warriors. In time he would make a good Warden, but Nathaniel saw beneath the cockiness in Carver. He had very little self-confidence and he dealt with it by being flippant or brash. From his own experience, he knew two people who would excel at giving Carver the confidence he lacked: Anya and Sigrun. He would enjoy watching that.

"Shall I have them clear the table? You seem to have lost your appetite."

"Varel, don't make me regret saving your arse," Nathaniel muttered good-naturedly.

Obviously_,_ he wasn't doing a very good job of hiding his impatience for the meal to be over and Anya to be in his arms. Andraste's grace, he was behaving like a randy young man. He forced himself to lean across the table and discuss fletching with Gideon, a fellow archer.

After what seemed an eternity, Anya stood and excused herself, claiming fatigue from a long voyage. Nathaniel waited thirty minutes before also excusing himself and he took the stairs two at a time. Surreptitiously looking up and down the hall, he tapped lightly on her door. She opened it immediately and pulled him inside and into her arms.

Her lips felt like brushed silk under his and she smelled of the sea and sun. Maker, she fit so well against him, as if made for his arms alone.

"So tell me, Naughty Nate, when will I get to hear a bawdy song?" she purred against his neck.

"That bloody dwarf will die a painful death," he swore, pulling away slightly.

Her laughter warmed his skin. Her tongue trailed wet kisses along his neck before she pressed a kiss against the hollow of his throat. He felt his arousal straining against his trousers and then her hands were busy with the ties and buckles. Her fingers stroked him, freeing him from the confines of his smalls. He groaned, his blood burning a trail of want all the way to the tip of his manhood, where a drop of fluid appeared. Her fingers lightly rubbed the fluid against the heated tip and then tightened as she stroked his length.

Her wrapper drifted to the floor as his hands explored her curves. He pinned her against the door, pushing her legs apart with his knee, his lips moving across her soft skin to find a rose-tipped breast. With a deft hand, he wrapped one of her long, slender legs around his waist.

He felt the hot dampness of her brush against his thigh as she tried to rub herself against him, a moan of want escaping her. With a low growl, he entered her and her hands pulled him closer, his name on her lips. His hips flexed and he thrust into her again, his need to consume her, to become a part of her, screaming in his blood.

He had been patient for far too long.

**Additional A/N**_: Thank you, Arsinoe de Blassenville, for the discussion on the islands just off the coast of Ferelden. I agree that they would make a very defensible position against an invasion from the sea.  
><em>


	16. Undercurrents

**Undercurrents**

_**We must aid them. The mages turn to blood magic because they see no alternative**_.

**It's an excuse, nothing more. They have to be patient. If the underground assists more than one or two at a time, it draws attention that we can't afford.**

_Blood mages are no longer deserving of freedom, Anders. There is no justice, no honor, in calling upon demons._

_**A curious sentiment, Justice. Was that not what you did?**_

_I will not listen to such accusations from you, Vengeance_.

Anders scrubbed fiercely at his face, willing the voices to still. Maker, it was like having two children warring in his head, vying for his attention. There were days when all he could hear was the whisper of voices, like a winter wind, cold and empty. It made thinking impossible and sleep was rapidly becoming a stranger. How could they not recognize they were two sides of the same coin? He chuckled. What did that make _him_?

He looked down at his hands. They were bloodied and the knuckles cracked and oozing. He reluctantly healed the cuts. There was a part of him that wanted the pain, wanted to have a reminder of what he was capable of doing. He would never have thought himself capable of such brutality. Even as he thought that, an image of the carnage he'd left behind him when he fled to Kirkwall rose in his mind, forcing him to remember that he was more than capable of such violence.

He bent and tugged at the body of the templar, pulling him along the dirt path. Sweat trickled down his back and beaded on his forehead, sticky rivulets that stung his eyes. The air was stale and stagnant. His breath was coming in short gasps and his side ached.

As he neared the mouth of the cave, he felt a tickle of wind against his face, cooling the sweat. He staggered on with his burden and when he stepped into the fresh morning breeze, he paused and straightened.

**The trouble is that blood mages make it even more difficult for people to feel any sympathy for the plight of mages. It only demonstrates how right they are to fear us.**

Anders bent and grabbed the templar's limp form once more, not waiting for a response. The salty air and brisk wind chilled him but he preferred it to the dank, claustrophobic tunnels that snaked from the Gallows to an abandoned stretch of coastline. Grunting, he pushed the body over the edge of the steep bank and watched as it rolled and tumbled down to the sea. With a mighty spray of water, the body sank out of sight.

_Murdering the templar was not helpful to the cause. His disappearance will not go unremarked._

**Fine, next time I'll let him kill us or, better yet, make us tranquil. Wouldn't that be lovely?**

Anders pushed his hair back and straightened his robe. Did Justice really think he enjoyed killing people? But the truth was there, whispering in his head, just as the wind whispered along his skin. He hated killing people but templars, in his mind, were not people. They were lyrium-addicted animals that killed mages for no just reason.

He turned and made his way quickly back along the twisting maze of tunnels. It really didn't matter. He was committed to his cause and would kill anyone who stood in his way. He recognized that about himself, once the curtain of civility was pulled aside.

_If she stands against you, will you kill Anya as well?_

**She won't stand against me. She's a Warden and won't involve herself in what's to come.**

_She is a compassionate woman who will seek to defend those who are in need._

**If that was true, Justice, she would be here now, fighting with us**.

_Yet you do not answer my question. Would you kill Anya?_

Anders paused, once again scrubbing at his face, as if he could erase the memory of Annie. Would he kill her? Could he kill her? He shook his head.

"No," he whispered aloud. Grief momentarily stilled the voices.

_**Do not be so sure, Anders. You might not have the choice.**_

Anders shivered as a faint wisp of wind found its way along his heated skin. He felt caught in an eddy, pulled along in directions he had never expected to take. Yes, he would kill anyone who tried to stop what he was putting into motion. Even Anya. The thought crashed into him, a powerful wave of self-loathing washing away everything else.

**~~~oOo~~~**

She was alone when she awoke. The pillow he'd rested his head on the night before was cold and she pulled it closer, breathing deeply. Of course he was gone. He wouldn't want to compromise her reputation. Although she thought it a noble gesture, she knew trying to prevent the news of their relationship from spreading was tantamount to trying to hold back the tides of the Waking Sea.

Rising, she reached for her wrapper. A smile curled her lips upward and a wave of tenderness flooded her. A single rose, as pale as a maiden's blush, rested on the wrapper. She picked it up and breathed in its subtle, rich fragrance. She closed her eyes, remembering their night together with a heated flush. His passion had awakened a fire in her that she hadn't known existed.

Glancing around the room, a memory of Anders leapt into her mind, threatening her newfound peace. He had shared this room with her for weeks before he'd betrayed her. One night with Nathaniel would not wash that away and she wondered if a lifetime of nights with him would ever wash away the stain Anders had left on her soul.

With quick, decisive movements, she went to the bell-pull and gave it a determined yank. Rafaela, her personal maid, arrived in moments.

"Yes, Arlessa Anya?" she asked, bobbing a curtsey.

"Send Bragheda up to see me, if you would, Rafaela, and then return to me."

Rafaela's liquid brown eyes widened. "Mistress?" she asked quickly, trepidation evident in her tone.

"Don't be alarmed, Rafaela. I want you to pack up my things. All of them. I think it's time I found different quarters."

Her maid, an Orlesian elf who had made the journey to Vigil's Keep with her, bobbed her head again. Anya's lips twitched at the approval shining in the woman's eyes.

"Yes, I know, it is more than time for such a move," Anya teased.

The young woman blushed but offered Anya a bright smile. "You are very wise, Arlessa Anya."

The housekeeper, Bragheda, was a tall woman, plain in speech and looks, kind of heart, and stout of manner. She was a local woman whose family had died in the Blight and who'd come to Anya by way of Bann Delilah. Anya had taken to her immediately.

"I need your help in deciding which room I should move to," Anya began without preamble.

"Well, you've finally come to your senses. About time, I say."

Anya's lips twitched. "We all make the journey when we are ready," she replied dryly.

"And some are slower than others to take that first step."

"Thank you for your honesty, Bragheda. Perhaps, when you're done lecturing me on how slow I am, you can recommend new quarters?"

"The guest quarters in the east wing seems a smart choice. Near to someone so as not to attract attention and as different a room from this as is possible."

Anya stared down at the rose she still held, trying to remember if she'd ever received a lovelier gift from anyone. She felt foolishly sentimental and unaccountably young in that moment. Her smile refused to leave her.

"Is there anyone within the Vigil who isn't aware of my relationship with this _someone_?"

Bragheda, arms akimbo, laughed. "Not likely. Well, mayhap Nelson, but he's blind in one eye and can't see out of the other."

"It doesn't bother me in the least if everyone knows, but Nathaniel seems to think it compromises my position within the arling."

"That's his own blindness coming to bear, I'll wager. There's naught who'd begrudge the young man his happiness. I expect you'll convince him of that in time."

"I think I'm as likely to die of old age, but I do intend to try."

The older woman laughed. "You're that good for him. I expect he'll lose the battle much quicker than he thinks to."

The two women made their way down the corridor to a large room. A series of corridors led off in different directions and Bragheda led her down a brightly lit hallway that took an unexpected turn before opening into a large, well-appointed sitting room. Within,four doors, all heavy oak, were closed and the housekeeper fumbled with a large ring of keys attached to her girdle.

The room was brighter and slightly larger than her old room. Morning light filtered through the sheer fabric of the curtains. The room was done in dark greens and pale peach. Heavy damask drapes, the color of ferns found deep in a forest, were tied back with peach-colored velvet cords. The room managed to be to both masculine and feminine and was a perfect, restful retreat.

"As always, Bragheda, you're quite right. This will do beautifully. I'll leave you to arrange for my things to be moved immediately."

"Of course," the woman said with an approving smile. "And your _someone_ is in the room across from this one."

Two hours later, Anya glanced up from her correspondence to find Varel standing silently, hands clasped behind his back, in front of her desk. How long had he been there? She rubbed her eyes wearily and summoned a smile.

"I'm never sure what is the more onerous of my tasks: overseeing the arling or recruiting new Wardens," she said, waving him to a chair. "But I wanted to thank you for your hard work, Varel. You have kept everything running quite smoothly in my absence."

She watched as Varel settled himself in the chair. He allowed himself a brief smile and then leaned forward. "Your trip to Jader didn't go as planned," he stated quietly.

Blinking in surprise, she forced herself to smile at his words. An insightful, canny man, her seneschal, she thought wryly. "You never miss a thing, do you?"

"I have missed entirely too much at times and it cost a number of people dearly, Commander. I have sworn not to allow that to happen again."

Did everyone have secrets? Some hidden pain, or the ghosts of the past haunting them? She looked down at the letter she had written to King Alistair and then back up at her seneschal.

"I want a messenger to ride out today and deliver this letter to the king. It's imperative that he receive it as soon as possible. I'll be following it in two day's time."

She looked at it again and then handed it to Varel without sealing it. He scanned it and she studied him for a reaction. Other than a brief flare of surprise, his face remained impassive.

"As you wish, Commander."

"From Denerim, I'll be traveling to Redcliffe and then on to Kinloch Hold. I expect to be gone for three weeks," Anya continued and then sighed wearily.

"Leaving is the last thing I want to do but I see no help for it. While I'm gone, I want a scouting party sent to Brandel's Reach and Alamar. I want this group to go unremarked upon, if possible. I'll speak to Captain Garevel but I'd like your opinion on who best to send. Garevel is too willing to use brute force, rather than subtlety."

"Wouldn't Warden Nathaniel be better suited to arrange this? He's a master scout and knows better than any who is capable of completing the mission without being seen," Varel asked quietly.

Anya glanced down at her desk and then found her eyes wandering to the window. Outside_,_Nathaniel was overseeing the morning's practice sessions. "I don't want any appearance of Warden involvement in this. There are rumblings of discontent among many Fereldans because of the power and prestige given to our Order. Sending Nathaniel, or any Warden, will only seek to reinforce their belief that we are building some sort of army within Ferelden."

Varel sighed and eased himself out of his chair. "As you wish, Commander." An undercurrent of disapproval marked his words and stance.

"You don't agree?"

"Your reasoning is sound, Commander."

"But?"

"But I don't like the idea of this military operation while you are away from the arling. It might be wiser to send Sigrun and Sarhal to Kinloch Hold in search of more mages and healers."

Anya frowned but she saw the wisdom in his words. Still, she preferred to find the recruits. Years of being a Warden had given her insights that neither Sigrun nor Sarhal had. She paced the room, considering his suggestion. Just as she turned to face him and agree with his assessment, the door was flung open and Nathaniel stormed in.

"Didn't you hear anything I said?" he demanded, and there was no denying his anger.

"I hear everything you say. Just as I hear everything Varel says. Hearing doesn't mean blind obedience," she retorted, nodding her head in Varel's direction.

"I'll send the letter immediately, Commander," Varel said with a hint of humor in his voice.

Anya saw nothing amusing at all about the situation but she held her tongue, merely nodding to Varel.

"What grave offense have I given now?" she asked Nathaniel quietly as soon as they were alone.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Hawke hurried up the steps to Viscount Dumar's office. The guard opened the door with a polite nod, and she entered, smoothing the silk skirt of her dress with nervous fingers. What had been so important that he'd sent a runner to her estate?

Seneschal Bran looked up from the vellum in his hands, his supercilious smile condemning her to an immigrant's status. She felt her hands curl and she returned his smile with one she hoped conveyed that she was, in part, an Amell, and as such, her station was far above his. Looking down her nose at the vain, arrogant man, she spoke in haughty tones.

"Good morning, Viscount Dumar. Shall I return when are less busy with your seneschal?" she asked, imbuing his rank with as much disdain as she could muster.

The seneschal's face blanched and he gave her a cold, hard look before he assumed his usual aloof stare of indifference.

"No need, Lady Margaret; Bran was just leaving."

As soon as the door shut, she settled into a chair. "What is this urgent matter you spoke of in your message?"

"It seems I need your help yet again. The Arishok sent a delegation to discuss a more peaceful co-existence. I had such high hopes_,_ as the meeting went quite well. It's a shame, really, that nothing good will come of it."

Margaret's stomach fluttered anxiously. The Arishok seemed more likely to explode than co-exist in peace. For reasons she had yet to fathom_, _the leader of the Qunari presence in Kirkwall seemed to find her less offensive than others, and had requested her aid several times.

"Why do you say that?" she managed to ask around the sudden dryness of her mouth.

"The delegation has vanished," he replied morosely. "Imagine how the Arishok will respond when he discovers the delegation disappeared virtually from this very office."

"I feel badly for you, Viscount Dumar, but what is it I can do to assist you that your own city guards can't do?"

"Find the delegation before word gets out. If I send the city guards on such a mission then the Arishok will know immediately. Speak with Seneschal Bran and find that delegation, Lady Margaret. Please."

"Of course, Viscount Dumar, but there is something I must ask of you in return."

Hawke took a deep breath and when the man across from her nodded silently, she gave voice to her request. "Anders, a friend of mine, runs a clinic in Darktown. He is the only one in the city who provides healing to those poor people, and the templars are beginning to make that extremely difficult. If I find this delegation for you, I ask that you speak with Knight-Commander Meredith about this matter. I will take responsibility for him, but he needs to continue his work without fear of being taken by the templars."

Ever the politician, Dumar nodded. Hawke knew her influence in the city made it impossible for him to deny the request and she loathed using that influence, but Anders provided a service nobody else was willing to, and in doing so he kept the denizens of Darktown from rioting in the pristine and palatial streets of Hightown. Even Dumar realized the truth in that.

"Thank you, Viscount Dumar."

She took her leave and after a brief, unhelpful discussion with the seneschal, she went in search of Varric. He was sitting at their favorite table in the Hanged Man, playing Wicked Grace with Fenris and Isabela.

"Ah, Hawke, just in time to play the next hand," Varric said, waving her over.

"Hawke," Fenris barked, his eyes firmly fixed on his cards.

Margaret bit back a smile. A barely discernable twitch upwards of his lips was there and gone again, delighting her. She was tempted to drop a kiss on the top of his head just to see what he would do but decided against it. The past few days had been peaceful as they had explored their new relationship and he had expressed, on more than one occasion, his unwillingness for their friends to share in it.

"Oh, Hawke, that color _does_ look good on you. I knew it the moment I saw it in that dressmaker's shop."

Isabela, scantily clad and saucy as ever, slapped her cards on the table and twirled her finger in the air, indicating her desire for Hawke to turn around and show off her dress.

She was not about to twirl around for the woman's pleasure. Bad enough she had taken to wearing dresses instead of the woolen trousers and linen shirts she was accustomed to. She kept a set of robes and a staff in Varric's room and another set at Fenris's dilapidated mansion. Few in Kirkwall knew she was a mage and she preferred it that way.

"Varric, if I was looking for someone who recently resigned from the City Guards, and who was taking bribes, where might I find one?"

Without looking up, he pointed a finger at the bar. A man, wearing cheaply-made leathers, was pouring a drink from a bottle of Corff's finest Nevarran whiskey. How could someone in such scruffy leathers afford to drink such expensive whiskey? She wondered if he had friends and looked around the room.

"See those three at the table exactly opposite us? Friends of the whiny ex-soldier," Varric said, glancing up at her and chuckling at her look of surprise. "What? You think your face doesn't give you away? Why do you think you always lose at cards?"

"I do not always lose!" she replied indignantly.

"Uh, right. Rivaini? Explain to Hawke that her right eyebrow drifts up when she has a good hand and that her left hand twitches when she…"

"Enough, enough," Hawke interjected with a chuckle. "I get the point."

She sank down on the bench beside Fenris and nudged his shoulder with her own. "Am I really that bad?"

"Worse. The dwarf was being kind."

"Ouch. You could soften that a bit with a smile or a compliment afterwards, you know."

Fenris turned to look at her, his expression grave. "You wish to hear compliments about how open your expression is?"

Hawke sighed and took his cards from his hands, rearranged them and then felt her right eyebrow lift. She sighed in resignation. They were right.

"I pass," Fenris grunted, taking his cards back and carefully placing them in a neat pile in front of him, face down.

Isabela and Varric laughed, and even Fenris allowed a brief smile to flit across his features. Under cover of the table, she let her fingers brush against his thigh briefly before resting both hands on the table. She felt his thigh move against hers in answer and a flutter tickled her stomach.

Hating to dampen the high spirits of her friends, Hawke explained what she had learned from both the viscount and the seneschal.

"It seems that he is most likely the man we're looking for," she concluded, nodding at the red-haired man that lounged against the bar.

"Ah well, I was losing anyway," Isabela sighed, tossing her cards at Varric.

"Blondie's upstairs in my suite. We might need him if that guy's friends join in the fight."

"I'll go get him," Hawke said, rising. Fenris's hand snaked out and clamped around her wrist.

"I will go," he said quietly, but firmly.

She frowned, aware that both Varric and Isabela were watching the exchange with interest. "That's not necessary."

"Well, I'm not going," Isabela contributed with a wink. "I'll just watch you two tussle over who goes. Oooh, that does sound very appealing," she added with a suggestive smile.

Hawke shook her head before returning her gaze to the elf still holding fast to her wrist. Fenris gave her a penetrating stare that made her feel completely defenseless and defensive at the same time. Reluctantly, he let go of her wrist.

"I will be here," he muttered.

She gave him a reassuring smile before making her way up the stairs to find Anders devouring a roasted chicken. He glanced up, swallowing loudly, and smiled at her once he'd finished.

"Hawke," he said cordially.

Hawke felt unease crawl along her spine. She wasn't used to seeing Anders so relaxed and jovial. She found it disconcerting and momentarily regretted not having Fenris accompany her.

"I spoke with Viscount Dumar, Anders. The templar raids in Darktown should cease, at least for now. I can't promise how long that will last," she added, giving him what she hoped was a stern look.

"In other words, behave or else? Got it," he said with a cheeky grin. "Thanks, Hawke."

Barely repressing a shiver at his cheery expression, Hawke nodded and then explained why the viscount had been willing to grant her request. For the briefest moment, his faced contorted and he looked furious but, in the blink of an eye, his countenance smoothed and his grin returned.

"I don't know which is worse: making mages tranquil or leashing them and sewing their mouths shut. I hate the thought of helping the Qunari, given how the saarebas are treated, but if you need me, I'll be there for you, Hawke."

Hawke felt faintly dizzy at the shifting expressions. She nodded weakly and was about to leave when his words stopped her.

"I know it's not my place, Hawke, but are you sure about Fenris? He's more like a rabid animal than a man."

Before she could voice her outrage, Fenris stepped into the room. "You're right. It is not your place. More importantly, what are you, Mage? Nothing more than an abomination," he concluded, his voice cutting and caustic; acid poured onto bared skin.

Hawke braced herself for an argument and, once again, started to speak, but this time Anders interrupted her.

"I've made no deals with a demon, I'm no abomination," Anders disputed hotly.

"Oh? Then I am mistaken. When you claimed that this spirit inside you agreed to help you free others of your kind, it sounded very much like an agreement between a mage and a demon," Fenris replied coldly. "Obviously it is not the same at all."

"That will be enough. Both of you get out so I can change, and stop talking to each other or about each other," Hawke ordered, angry at both of them. "And don't discuss me either," she warned and slammed the door on their retreating figures.

She felt caught in a strong rip-current, pulled and pushed and helpless to defuse the situation between the two men any more than she could defuse the growing threat of the Qunari.

Bloodshed was inevitable.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Everyone in the arling will know about our relationship before nightfall."

Anya caressed his cheek lightly. "How terrible! Will they hang me, do you suppose? Ride me out of the arling on a rail while throwing rotten fruits and vegetables at me?"

He frowned at her cavalier attitude, feeling another stir of anger. "You joke about this, Anya, but there will be repercussions."

A flash of matching anger sparked in Anya's eyes. "Do you think that I'm completely blind, Nathaniel? I spent enough time in Celene's court to understand the ramifications of a relationship with you. I will not, however, allow myself to become a dirty little secret, and I'm surprised that you would want that."

His anger twisted in him, stirring the darkness. "You may have spent time in Celene's court, Anya, but you _are_ naïve. There are a great many people just waiting for a chance to destroy you, and if you think I'll stand idly by, or be the cause of it, you are more than naïve. You are the arlessa and everything you do and say matters. These arbitrary decisions of yours are..." Nathaniel trailed off. "Have you learned nothing from your tenure here?"

Her face paled and then color flooded her cheeks. His gut twisted as he realized how fragile she still was. She was right: peoplealready knew about them. Her moving to new quarters across the hall from his hardly mattered.

He'd said far more than he'd intended. Far more than was fair. At least he hadn't raised his voice, but his tone had been cold and harsh. He paced away from her and stopped in front of her desk again. The rose he had left her that morning was in a small vase on her desk. She might as well have stood atop the battlements and announced their relationship to the world. Was that really so terrible? He sighed, trying to find words to mitigate his earlier outburst, but she spoke first.

"Why are you so angry? Is this about my possible fall from grace or are we speaking of Anders and Justice now?" she asked coolly, drawing herself up. Her chin tilted defiantly as she waited for him to speak.

This was not the way Nathaniel had envisioned his morning. He'd spent his first waking moments, staring down at her as she slept, still disbelieving his good fortune. He'd left quietly before the rest of the Vigil had stirred, in the hope of protecting her reputation when he knew he had hardly been indiscreet in his attentions.

He didn't want to fight with her, but neither did he want to see her so willingly throw away the gains she'd made within Ferelden's nobility. He clenched his jaws, refusing to give voice to the angry flow of words that wanted release.

"Ah. Your silence is most telling," she accused, turning away from him. "You should leave before more rumors are started."

He was stung by her words, by the rejection he saw in the rigid line of her shoulders. That was not what he'd meant to convey at all. He didn't want to be the cause of her hurt and he didn't want to be the cause of problems with the nobles of Ferelden. He felt damned no matter what he said or which way he turned.

"Andraste's grace, Anya," he began, his voice low and gruff, "I don't hold you to blame for Anders and Justice. Why would I?"

She was quiet for long moments. The silence became oppressive, a weighted hand that squeezed his chest. Finally, she turned to look at him and he saw the sorrow in her expression. When she spoke, her voice shook with unshed tears. He could see them trying not to fall, trembling on her lashes.

"Because I do."

He reached her in two long strides, gently pulling her into his arms. "This has to stop, Anya. You had no control over what happened, and blaming yourself doesn't change that. It only serves to undermine your healing."

"I saw him," she mumbled against his chest.

Nathaniel's heart skidded to a stop and then raced ahead of him. His thoughts were reeling and for a minute he had no words; no idea what to say. His own anger simmered hotly in him. That bastard! And why hadn't Varric prevented Anders from seeing Anya? It was the last request he'd made before leaving the dwarf. _"Keep that abomination away,"_ he'd instructed, and Varric had assured him he would.

"Tell me," he commanded quietly.

"I – I was at the ship's rail, watching Kirkwall as we departed and he was – he was just there, standing on the dock, and he looked terrible, as if he's being destroyed from within. I knew…" she trailed off and he waited, as patiently as he could, for her to continue.

"He just needed me to forgive him and I couldn't. I – I couldn't even acknowledge him. I wanted to, but I couldn't. Was it to punish him? Am I that spiteful and vindictive?"

Nathaniel thought she was entirely too unforgiving of herself and too willing to accept the blame for everything that had happened. Anders had done nothing to indicate he wanted to be forgiven, yet she was feeling guilty for not doing so?

How long? How long before his need for vengeance overcame his need to honor Anya's orders? How long before Anders no longer held power over either of them? Questions without answers, he knew.

"To the Void with Anders," he said vehemently.


	17. Harmony

**A/N: **_A brief respite from the stormy seas. Also, my deepest apologies to Robert Burns.  
>Thank you, Lisa, for all your time and effort in beta reading!<br>Enaid, you are a joy to have walking around in my head._

**Harmony**

Her aiming arm was shaking with fatigue as she raised her bow once more, arrow nocked and ready, and, in one fluid movement, she drew the bowstring back and released. The arrow landed in the dirt to the right of the dummy. She cursed softly in Orlesian, the words rolling freely from her tongue. With a quick twist of her right wrist, she pulled another arrow from the quiver on her back.

"Bring your right elbow in and up, Anya."

She didn't acknowledge Nathaniel's words but did as he suggested. The arrow glanced off the dummy's left arm and buried itself in the fence-rail to the left. She shook her head. Why she insisted on humiliating herself with useless practice sessions was beyond her.

"Varric suggested that the crossbow is much easier to use," she said without looking at Nathaniel. She blew her breath out and wiped her damp face on her sleeve.

"It's slower and heavier, Anya," Nathaniel replied, his voice calm and even. How could he keep from laughing at her attempts to become a competent archer? She gave him high marks for refraining from either humor or pity.

"Yes, but if it's more accurate, is that such a bad thing? I have been told mastering a bow takes a lifetime of practice."

"You have a natural talent for it; have patience. You're hitting the dummy more often than not."

Anya laughed, nocking another arrow. "Perhaps I can ask the darkspawn to hold very still so I have a chance of hitting them?"

She felt Nathaniel move closer and then his hand was guiding her left arm closer to her body. He raised her chin with a gloved hand and then stepped back. "Or, you could just keep practicing and hit them between the eyes."

Anya let out a puff of air, blowing damp tendrils of hair away from her face. Just as she drew back and released, Nathaniel shouted_, _and her arrow flew over the dummy's head. She spun around to glare at him and saw he was trying not to laugh.

"That was rather childish," she huffed.

"Do you think the darkspawn will simply stand around quietly waiting to be hit by your arrows? Or that they'll jump in front of them?"

Anya felt a reluctant bubble of laughter surface. "That would certainly be helpful."

"I'll see if I can arrange that on our next patrol. In the meantime, relax your shoulders and shoot another full quiver. I'll just be over there, out of harm's way."

Anya rolled her neck and flexed her aching shoulders. Another quiver of arrows? Her arm was already trembling with the strain of muscles that still seemed disinclined to move correctly. She shot a glare over her right shoulder. He was standing quietly, his eyes intent on her form. She reached behind her, grabbed a full quiver and exchanged it with the empty one.

"And after that? More hand-to-hand combat? Are you trying to get me so fatigued I won't argue with you for the remainder of the day?"

"You'd argue in your sleep if you thought you were right, Commander."

"I would not," she retorted and then chuckled. "Very well; have it your way, Second."

They had come out to the practice range after their argument over what people should and shouldn't know about their relationship. He had finally conceded, with remarkable grace, that since everyone in the Vigil knew, and everyone in Amaranthine also knew, it was pointless to keep up the charade. He had then insisted that she train until the midday meal was served. She thought it was his way of getting even, and, the more her muscles cried out in protest, the more convinced of that she became.

Closing her eyes, she ran over a mental list of how to breathe and whether her arm and finger placement was correct. When she was sure she had followed all the steps, she released the arrow. Opening her eyes, she watched as it sank into the target dummy's torso.

"Very nice," Nathaniel said quietly, voice humming with approval.

She allowed herself a moment to preen and then confessed, "If only I could do that with my eyes open."

Nathaniel's eyes widened and then he nodded. "That explains it," he said, moving to stand beside her.

He reached around her, pulling her body snug against his and then let his hands run down her arms. She shivered at his touch and allowed herself to lean against him for a moment before focusing on the task of loosing another arrow.

"Breathe," he whispered, a ruffle of warm air against her overheated skin. She took a breath and then another.

"Prepare your arrow and shoot."

"What? I can't do that with you so close. I'll hurt you."

"Yes you can, just relax your muscles and breathe."

She did as instructed with some difficulty. His nearness made her stomach cartwheel and her heart race. The arrow went wide to the left. Another went skidding into the dirt in front of the dummy.

"You're exhaling too early; it's throwing your aim off."

She was about to tell him that _he_ was throwing her aim off, but she held her tongue. Preparing to shoot, she felt his hands slide around her waist and push gently against her belly. Her heart hammered in her chest.

"Breathe, Anya," he instructed in a stern voice.

Had her heart not been galloping like a wild horse, she might have been able to. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. He matched her breathing, his hand pushing firmly against her diaphragm. She opened her eyes and loosed an arrow, which thudded into the target's torso.

"Again, just like that, only with a bit more speed," he whispered, his breath feathering along her neck. She shivered.

When he was satisfied, he stepped away. "Now, I'm going to count to sixty, out loud, and I want you to fire as many arrows as you can during that time."

She managed to get eight arrows off, five of which hit the dummy. "Satisfied?"

"No, and I won't be until you can fire twelve arrows in that amount of time, with each one hitting the target."

"You do realize that the taint will kill me long before that happens, don't you?"

Nathaniel smiled briefly and then took the empty quiver from her. "Time for dagger training," was his only comment.

"Slaver," she muttered, limping over to the rack of practice weapons and choosing two blunted daggers. When she turned around, Nathaniel was holding out a heavily-padded arming coat.

"I'm not going to go easy on you, Commander," he said by way of explanation.

"In that case, I suggest you armor yourself, as well," she replied_, _and saw the amused glint in his eyes. "And a bit of faith in me might not go amiss," she added as she donned the arming coat.

They faced each other, daggers drawn. She moved her eyes to the left and then, with a feint right, she brought her dagger up, aiming for his throat. He danced away on the balls of his feet. She spun on her left heel and came in low, but her move was clumsy and he grabbed her right wrist, shaking the dagger loose.

An hour later, her hip weeping in agony, she collapsed on the straw-covered ground, too tired to do more than pant. Sweaty and dirty, she glared at him. "You might at least let me train with someone I can beat once in awhile."

Nathaniel wiped the sweat from his face and shook his head. She noted that he was neither panting nor gasping. In fact, he hardly seemed winded at all. She felt both envy and admiration as he loomed over her.

"You're improving. If you believed that you could beat me, you would. The moves are there, Anya; it's your head that's stopping you."

With surprising speed, she pushed herself off the ground, using her head to knock him completely off his feet. He tumbled back and she spun right, away from the hand that snaked out to grab at her ankle. Her dagger drawn, she was on him in a flash, pinning his arms down with her knees. Her dagger was at his throat before he had time to respond.

"Oh, I see what you mean," she said with a grin.

Nathaniel tilted his chin up and she pressed the point of the blunted weapon at the hollow of his throat. She wanted to lean down and let her lips taste the sun-warmed skin of his throat, but she knew it would only embarrass him.

"I believe I win this round," she crooned triumphantly.

His smile made her stomach flutter. It was equal parts pride and lust. She unpinned his arms and rolled off him to rest on her back, staring up at the bright blue expanse of sky. A breathless, beautiful day surrounded them. She blinked as tears prickled at her lids and then were gone.

Peace resided in her heart, a serenity that was as welcome as it was foreign. The anger and the bitterness had dissipated and in their place was a calmness within her, a deep happiness that was, in part, because of the patient man beside her.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Morning light filtered through threadbare curtains. Anders blinked, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar surroundings. He stood and stretched, muscles humming in protest. He glanced around at the clean, plain room and memory flooded into him. He had helped Hawke kill a templar the day before, Ser Varnell, and then he'd returned to the Hanged Man while the others had gone to see the Grand Cleric.

After several pints and a meal that had consisted of congealed gravy and mystery meat - the standard fare at the Hanged Man - Varric had returned and they'd spent the remainder of the evening drinking and talking. By the time he'd been ready to return to Darktown, he'd been too unsteady on his feet and Justice had chastised him for drinking so much ale. Varric had taken pity on him and he had put him up for the night, paying for a small room on the upper floor of the tavern.

Dressing quickly, Anders made his way downstairs. Norah was just coming on duty and she glanced up with a cheery smile.

"Oy, Anders. There's some sort of commotion at the docks. A ship's master and some dockhands got into a brawl, by the look of it. Might want to see if you can help out."

Anders grabbed a stale roll and headed out. Only when he was healing did he feel a certain calmness of spirit. It sometimes seemed as if that was the only part of himself that was still present. There was no clamor of voices in his head as he made his way to the docks, just the chatter of gulls overhead, searching for their breakfast. The sun was bright; the clouds were scattered puffs in the distance. The tangy air held a hint of lemons as he neared the dock, overwhelming the usual stench of fish.

A crowd had gathered near the gangplank of a large ship. Anders chuckled as he saw the name painted on the stern in golden letters. _Eirene_. "A fine bit of irony," he remarked to no-one in particular.

"Let me through, I'm a healer," he ordered, pushing through the crowd.

"Here now, no cause to be so rough," a man growled, his grimy clothes reeking of sweat and stale fish. "Someone's already working on them men that's been hurt."

Anders took in the scene before him with the practiced eyes of a healer. Three men were sitting up, bruised and bloodied. One was cradling his arm, his shoulder at an odd angle. Another was holding a cloth to a head wound that bled copiously. The third was dazed and had a knot the size of a plum on his temple. None appeared to have life-threatening injuries. His gaze settled on a woman bent over one of the men and he saw the white glow of a healing spell envelop the patient.

He knelt beside the woman. "How can I help?"

Without looking at him, she said, "I'll tend to him, but if you would look after the others?"

The voice was familiar. Kind and calm, it triggered a memory that tickled at the edges of his memory. A brief image of a white-haired woman standing near a chantry, seeking assistance and another memory, older than the first, of a woman in the Tower who hadtaught him his first healing spell.

"Wynne?" he asked in surprise.

The woman looked up, her face creasing into a smile as recognition lit her eyes. "Anders! What are you doing here?" the woman asked in a warm tone.

"Healing," he answered and felt himself grinning foolishly, happy to see a familiar face and a welcoming smile.

"Well then_, _get to it, young man," the older woman encouraged before turning back to her patient.

They worked in perfect accord, both experienced healers who trusted in the skills of the other. Before Anders knew it, the workers and sailors were healed and back at work. He sat back on his heels, glancing at Wynne with a grin.

"What brings you to the lovely city of Kirkwall?" he asked, pushing himself up and then offering her a hand.

"I'm too old to be doing this for any length of time," she complained, straightening her back with a grimace.

"Nonsense, Wynne. You don't look as if you've aged at all since the last time I saw you."

"Still a master at flattery, I see," the woman remarked with a chuckle. "In answer to your question, I'm on my way back to Ferelden and from there, on to Orlais. There was another meeting of the fraternities in Cumberland and I promised Orsino that I would let him know the outcome."

Anders felt a stirring of unease but pushed it away. "What _was_ the outcome?"

"The Resolutionists were there and they are advocating a violent separation from the Chantry but cooler heads prevailed. Still, I believe change is inevitable at this point, Anders. I don't agree with all the oversight, but I still think some is required."

"The problem is that those who oversee us also fear us. As long as that's true, a peaceful resolution is impossible. That being the case, the sooner it happens, the better."

Wynne bristled at his remark and he silently cursed himself for upsetting the comfortable companionship between them.

"Sorry, I just see how badly the mages are treated here. The abuses of the templars, the number of mages made tranquil here, it's horrifying, Wynne."

"Yes, Orsino mentioned that. He's working with the Grand Cleric to try and rectify those problems, Anders. You never were very patient as a student, but I urge you to try to be so now. Cool heads must prevail."

"I'm the soul of patience," Anders protested with a chuckle.

The woman smiled warmly and shook her head. Anders felt an answering smile curve his lips. Their conversation was normal, the day was normal and for the moment, _he_ was normal.

They stood together as Wynne waited for the boat that would take her to the Gallows. She turned to him and patted his cheek affectionately. "You're a good man, Anders. I'm very proud of what you've done with your skills."

A hard lump formed in his throat and he was unable to speak for a minute. It had been so long since someone had shown such faith in him, given him friendship and acceptance without the dark shadow of fear in their expression. His eyes closed for a minute as he fought to control his emotions.

"Thank you, Wynne. I hope – I hope you'll always be proud of me," he said thickly.

Wynne frowned at him and seemed about to speak but the dockworker was motioning for her to board the small boat. Instead, she held him briefly, a mother offering comfort, and smiled.

"Follow your own path, Anders. Listen to no-one else," she whispered_, _and then she was gone.

He stood alone, watching the boat and the white-haired woman standing at the rail who was waving. His heart was lighter than it had been in months, the voices within him still.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anya glanced over at Nathaniel, who was reading her report on her visit with Raoul. A small frown marred his features, a dip of drawn black brows. As her smile twitched across her lips, she looked away. She was mooning like a lovesick young girl, not behaving in a manner befitting the leader of the Grey of Ferelden. Still, as often as she looked away, her eyes found their way back to him.

"You're staring," Nathaniel said, his voice equal parts amusement and chastisement.

"Perhaps it's that smudge of dirt on your chin?" she asked sweetly.

She watched him scrub at his chin, while still reading the report, his grey eyes intent. He hadn't shaved that morning and she found she liked the shadowy hint of stubble clinging stubbornly to his jaw.

"Anya," Nathaniel chided, without looking up.

"Am I not allowed to even glance in your direction?" she teased.

He sighed and shook his head, setting aside the first page of the report and focusing on the second. She matched his sigh and pushed away from her desk to walk to the window. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass and stared out at the practice yard, trying to be patient.

Carver, his face red from exertion, was training with his greatsword. Tammerlyn, their most seasoned warrior, was neatly side-stepping Carver's thrusts and their new recruit was frustrated. Finally, with a quick flick, Tammerlyn disarmed the Carvert. Caught off-balance, his momentum carried him forward to bounce off the split-rail fence. He turned, resting his hands on his knees, panting. He laughed at something Tammerlyn said and Anya could see he was more relaxed than when she'd first met him. He seemed almost content.

"I think having Carver here will be good for him. I would like to see him start working with a shield and longsword, however," she remarked over her shoulder.

"Yes, fine," Nathaniel responded absently, without looking up.

"I also think I should take him as a lover. He looks very lonely. Perhaps I can dress him up in silk dresses and those wonderful egret feathers they wear at Celene's court?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Or perhaps I should just move into the barracks with all the men and go through them one by one, or perhaps two or three at once?"

He sighed and tossed the papers aside. "You have very little patience," he said, coming to stand beside her.

"I'm sorry, Nathaniel. I'm very happy and it wants to burst out of me."

"You are a very strange woman. You have people conspiring against you, you have an arling to run, Wardens to train, nobles who will not take the news of our relationship well, and a boy king to deal with. How can you possibly be happy?"

She blinked, surprised, and reached up to caress his face, relishing the rough texture of his stubble as her fingers traced the line of his jaw. "My heart hasn't felt this light in so long. I feel ready to face whatever I need to, without fear. I can stand on my own, now, but I don't have to because I know you're beside me. It's a beautiful day and I am a woman in love. Why wouldn't I be happy?" she asked.

He captured her lips in a searing kiss, his tongue plundering her mouth. Time stopped and then lurched forward and she stepped back, breathless and smiling.

"There's also the matter of my beating you in the practice yard," she added_,_ and was rewarded by one of his rare smiles.

"As I mentioned, you are a very strange woman."

"Indeed. But I am a very strange woman who loves you. How many others can make that same claim?"

A wicked glint in his eyes, Nathaniel held up his hand, beginning to count his fingers.

She laughed, slapping playfully at his fingers. "Horrible man, leave me to my work."

**~~~oOo~~~**

Nathaniel glared at Varel, ungraciously taking the Antivan-made guitarra from him. "I won't forget this," he vowed.

Varel nodded gravely. "Of course not, Warden Nathaniel."

"Are you sure that we'll have privacy for this?"

"Yes, Warden Nathaniel. I will be the only one who will hear you, other than Commander Anya."

Nathaniel sighed, letting his fingers run along the strings of the guitarra as he quickly played a scale to ensure it was in tune. "Don't think to catch me drunk again," he warned.

"Certainly not, Warden Nathaniel. I do remember telling you how dangerous it was to drink and bet. I believe you were twelve at that time. It would appear you need a remedial lesson."

"You're enjoying this entirely too much, Varel."

"Just so, Warden Nathaniel."

With a low hum of frustration, Nathaniel glanced up at Anya's lit window. Maker's breath, he was the biggest fool in Ferelden, and possibly Thedas. He was a private man. A quiet man. He liked to think that he was an intelligent and dignified man. Apparently none of that was true. He cleared his throat.

"For Andraste's sake, don't break the window with those pebbles, either."

He heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. He groaned and then nodded. A faint rattle of stones striking glass and his heart stuttered momentarily. They waited and then Varel tossed another pebble at the window.

A shadow fell against the drapes and then light streamed out of the open window. "You boys stop throwing rocks and run along home!" Anya called out.

His humiliation now felt complete. "I will never, ever, drink Nevarran whiskey with you again," he muttered.

"As you say, Warden. I believe now would be a good time to start singing," Varel replied.

Nathaniel's fingers strummed the notes on the guitarra and he began to serenade the woman who had claimed his heart, any nervousness gone in the face of her brilliant smile.

_Oh, my love is like a dew-clad rose,  
>Bejeweled by morning's light;<br>Oh_,_ my love is like the brightest star  
>That shimmers in the night.<em>

_As fair art thou, my lovely lass,  
>So deep in love am I;<br>And I will love thee still, my dear  
><em>_'Til__ the Waking Sea goes dry._

'_Til__ the Waking Sea goes dry, my love,  
>And the rocks melt wi' the sun;<br>I will love thee still, my dear,  
>While the sands o' life shall run.<em>

_I'll stay with thee, my only love,  
>I'll give to thee my heart;<br>So take my hand and walk with me,  
>No more will we e'er part.** <em>

As soon as the last chord faded, he handed the guitarra to Varel and made his way to Anya, taking the stairs two at a time. His cheeks were burning and his heart was thundering in his chest. A smile rode his lips.

She met him at the door of her room. She was smiling through her tears, and he pulled her into his arms, his mouth finding hers. He was home and, no matter what came next, he had her love.

"Never doubt this," he whispered against her lips. "I love you, Anya Caron."

A/N: **_This is sung to Robert Burns's "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose" and in particular, to Andy M. Stewart's version. I can only hope Robert Burns forgives me for changing bits of it to fit the Dragon Age world. And also that poor Nate forgives me for putting him through that bit of fluff._


	18. Rumors of War

**A/N**:_Thank you to all those reading, alerting and reviewing! This is one of those necessary filler chapters...apologies. ;)__  
><em>_Thank you, Lisa, as always! Your beta-ness is much appreciated!_

**Rumors of War**

Margaret stood on the top step, hand poised to knock. Gamlen's house brought back a wealth of memories, mostly unpleasant. The cramped quarters and the smell of stale sweat, rotting garbage and mildew had been the least of the unpleasantness. Gamlen had been cruel to her mother on several occasions and there had been a time when Hawke had been determined to return the favor. It wasn't until she and Carver had found their grandparents'will that she'd seen the pain behind her uncle's eyes and had understood the reason for it. She knew what it was to be shown favoritism by a parent; seeing Gamlen's pain had opened her eyes to how much Carver had suffered through the favoritism show to her by her mother.

She knocked briskly and waited, listening to the sound of footsteps inside. Gamlen opened the door and glared at her. Hawke forced herself not to recoil. He clearlyhadn't bathed recently and wore grime-encrusted clothes. The house, and Gamlen, reeked of bitterness and desperation.

"What do you want?" he demanded in his surliest voice.

"I don't want anything, Uncle Gamlen," she said quietly, hoping there wasn't a trace of the pity she felt for him in her voice.

He grunted and opened the door wider, as close to an invitation as she was likely to get. Margaret stepped across the threshold and entered the main room with its rickety, worn furniture and dim lighting. There was only a small, narrow window over the door to provide minimal light in the dusty room.

"What are you doing here? Feeling sorry for Uncle Gamlen? Or come to gloat over your good fortune?"

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, determined not to let his vitriol push her away, but a part of her wanted to turn around and march back to Hightown.

"Neither. I wanted to invite you to dinner tonight. Mother's preparing a lamb roast with mint jelly."

Gamlen grunted. "Poor Uncle Gamlen, can't afford to eat properly. Let's throw some crumbs his way?"

"No, I haven't seen you for awhile. I don't know why you won't accept our invitation to move in with us. The mansion is large enough for you to move in and not be bothered by our company."

"I've told you why, girl. Quit meddling."

He _had_ told her…loudly. Every time she'd had the temerity to ask him, he would reply with contempt and derision. There were too many bad memories in the old family estate for him but, while she understood that, she also knew that living in squalor in Lowtown only reinforced his bitterness.

"Now, what is it you really want?" he asked suspiciously.

"The Qunari's leader, their Arishok, is becoming unstable and many believe a war with them is possible. I have just come from the Qunari compound and I fear that war is no longer merely possible, but inevitable. I wouldn't want you here, alone, should such a thing happen."

Gamlen laughed; a sharp and hard sound that made Margaret's concern begin to unravel as her anger plucked at its threads. Must he be so disagreeable all the time? He and Carver were so much alike that it made her heart ache for her brother. She could do nothing to protect him, but she could, by the Maker, do something to help her uncle if he would just cooperate even a little.

"There aren't even a hundred of them, Margaret. The City Guards can easily handle them. And speaking of the City Guards, tell your friend to stop sending patrols to look out after me. I was looking out for myself long before you were born and I don't need help now."

Anger and hurt lanced through her, and she struggled to keep her voice calm and her words equitable. "They have weapons that we don't: poisons that make us fight each other, explosives that can level an entire neighborhood. Their mages are powerful and deadly. You won't be safe here."

She might as well have been talking to the wall behind him, for all the good it did her. He shook his head, his lined face a mask of contempt. Maker's breath, he was as pigheaded as Carver, but she had that same stubbornness in her as well. She held her ground, refusing to retreat from his scorn.

"If war breaks out you'll die, and I never thought you were the suicidal type, but if that's your desire, I'll leave now," she added for emphasis.

Gamlen shook his head again, this time with a hint of a reluctant smile. "If it means that much to you, I'll consider moving in temporarily. But don't bet on it, girl. In the meantime, when is dinner?"

Relief danced along her muscles, unwinding them, and her smile came rushing to her lips. "Six bells."

Without another word, lest she undo the tentative steps he had taken, she turned and left. She hurried along the narrow street and then up the long flight of steps that led to Hightown. She had just enough time to stop by the butcher's shop to pick up a lamb roast, hoping her mother would forgive her for the lie and the extra company.

**~~~~oOo~~~**

"Nathaniel Howe, stop glowering. According to local gossip you should be smiling. I'm so happy for you."

Nathaniel shook his head, dismayed, but not surprised, that Delilah already knew about Anya. He stepped forward and gave her a brief hug. Of course she knew; she was the beloved bann of the city, having been made so by Anya after Esmerelle's death. It was, Anya claimed, the only fair thing to do since Delilah had been the one to uncover Esmerelle's role in the plot to assassinate Anya nearly a year ago.

"I warned Anya that everyone would talk, but I didn't expect you to be one of those gossiping about it too, Del."

"Allow me a moment to gloat at least, Brother. I distinctly remember telling you to be patient because she would come around and see you were the man of her dreams. Although, now that I think about it, I do question her taste."

"Enough gloating, woman. Where's my nephew?"

"Sleeping, and if you wake him then you'll be the one to change him and feed him. I warn you now that he is still flinging more gruel than he's eating."

Motherhood suited his sister. There was a glow about her that lit her eyes and gave her a serenity that she'd lacked growing up under their father's cruel and predatory eyes. Thomas Samuel Meeks, named in honor of their brother who had died in the civil war, the old groundskeeper, Samuel, who had died during the assault on Vigil's Keep, had been born three weeks after Anders's attack on Anya. The baby had brought a certain peace to Delilah that Nathaniel envied at times.

"And Albert?"

"Gone to discuss the attacks on the Amaranthine merchant ships with several old friends; ship captains he got to know when he had his shop. He should be returning soon. Sit down and tell me all about you and Anya."

Nathaniel shook his head. "There's nothing to tell. We're together for now."

Delilah shook her head, a frown creasing her forehead. "Why are you so afraid to trust in happiness?"

How could he explain to her that, in his experience, happiness was a rare, often fleeting state? She had always had a gift for finding the joy in life, or making her own when life seemed joyless, going so far as to elope with a local merchant rather than stay in the prison that life at Vigil's Keep had become.

"We're Grey Wardens, Del. We're not supposed to be happy," he replied with a faint smile.

Before Delilah could respond, Albert returned, saving Nathaniel from the lecture that Delilah was about to give him. He was grateful for the interruption because the last thing he wanted to discuss was just how happy he was and how worried he was that it wouldn't last; that it_couldn't_last. Life had taught him that much.

Greetings out of the way, Albert began to speak immediately. "Captain Ferabild suspects it's a group of the Felicisima Armada at work. She is bound for Kirkwall and knows a few locals there that she can trust. She says she'll make some discreet enquiries and see what she can discover, if anything. Apparently there's a large presence of the Armada there. They're known as the Raiders of the Waking Sea.

"Captain Haversham's next port of call is Cumberland and he'll do the same with his contacts there. He's lost two of his smaller ships in recent months and he's been asking questions at every port he's berthed in since then."

Nathaniel listened intently, rubbing thoughtfully at his jaw before speaking. "Anya is sending a scouting party to Brandel's Reach and Alamar in the hopes of finding any raider bases and weeding them out. Once the islands are cleared of pirates, she'll have watchtowers and fortifications built there. Voldrik, our master mason, is already drawing up the building plans," he finished solemnly.

"Oh Nathaniel, the rumors of war with Orlais aren't really true, are they?"

Without answering directly, Nathaniel tried to reassure his sister. "Ferelden's military forces are in a weakened state after the civil war with the Bannorn, as well as the Blight. She wants to ensure that both Ferelden and her arling are in a position to meet any threat."

Albert spoke up, his voice grave_._"I'm not sure which the more frightening prospect is: a war with the Felicisima Armada or the Orlesians. As Haversham explains it, the pirates of Llomerryn formed the Armada to fight off the Qunari invasion, most particularly the Qunari dreadnaughts, with devastating results. Now their services are for sale to the highest bidder. If they're behind the piracy, you can bet there are powerful people paying them," he concluded.

"We'll deal with it," Nathaniel reassured them. "In the meantime, set about fortifying the walls and gates of the city, make sure the militia continues training, and report anything suspicious to Anya."

Nathaniel stood, giving his sister an apologetic smile. "I need to return. Anya and I are leaving for Denerim tomorrow morning. We shouldn't be gone for more than a week."

"Oh!" Albert said, reaching into his pack and removing a courier's leather pouch. "Letters from across the Waking Sea for Commander Anya," he explained, handing the pouch to Nathaniel.

Nathaniel examined the seal, frowning as he recognized the stylized figure of two birds as being from Kirkwall. Not the Viscount's seal, nor any he recognized. Was it from Anders? Margaret Hawke? Why would Margaret Hawke be writing to Anya? Aware of his sister's watchful eyes, he shrugged and slipped the small pouch into a pocket and made his farewells, eliciting promises that they would report on any information the captains discovered.

As soon as he passed through the gates of the city, Nathaniel reined in and reached for the pouch, trying to justify why he should open it before handing it over to Anya. He was her Second, entrusted with carrying out her commands and maintaining order in her absence; a task made impossible without knowing everything that was going on in her life. Breaking the seal without it being obvious was an easy enough task for someone who had been taught how, as he had during his time with Maslan.

His honor, as well as his faith in Anya, fought with his mistrust of Anders and the mage's ability to manipulate and use people for his own gain. Without opening the pouch he wouldn't know whether there was something in it that would damage the fragile peace she had found or if there was just an innocuous inquiry about Carver inside if it was from Margaret Hawke.

He stared down at the pouch, weighing it carefully in his gloved hand.

**~~~oOo~~~**

_Fergus Cousland__  
><em>_Teyrn of Highever_

_Your Grace,_

_It has come to my attention that ships flying the Amaranthine colors are being attacked at sea. These ships carry the wealth of our arling with them and it is imperative to stop further attacks. To that end I am mounting an expedition to Brandel's Reach and Alamar in the hope that these raiders have their base of operations located there. Additionally, we have begun the process of discovering just who these privateers are._

_On a related note, Your Grace, I have reason to believe that fortifying our defenses on the aforementioned islands is in our best interest. These largely uninhabited islands present a perfect opportunity for any nation wishing to take advantage of our diminished military forces. They are a logical location for watchtowers and at least one fortified building, if not more; a first line of defense, if you will. To that end I have requested my master builder begin drawing up plans. It is my hope that you will aid in this undertaking with both funds and manpower._

_Should you desire to discuss this further, I will be in Denerim for the next week but will be most happy to meet with you upon my return._

_I remain your most humble servant,_

_Anya Caron__  
><em>_Arlessa of Amaranthine__  
><em>_Warden Commander of Ferelden_

She reread the letter and shook her head in mild amusement. Such an obsequious and pompous missive to send to someone she considered a friend, and yet she felt obligated to formalize her plans and request for assistance. Sighing, she pushed the vellum aside, reached for another and began to write a brief note to include with it.

_Dear Fergus,_

_I trust that you are well and that Voldrik's men were able to complete the work on your estate without complications. He was quite impressed with the structures and how well they weathered Arl Howe's attack._

_I recently returned from Orlais, where I was informed that one of Empress Celene's many cousins is working with Anora Mac Tir in the hope of a coup to overthrow Celene. Should they be successful, their further plans include an invasion of Ferelden. We both know what would happen should that occur and it is that knowledge which spurs my urgency to act._

_I am meeting with King Alistair on my trip to Denerim and intend to ask him for funds and manpower as well, but we both know he has a great many places to spend money and a great many nobles to placate. If I can't convince him of the necessity of fortifying the islands, I will have no recourse but ask for outside help in this matter and I think that might be as great a problem as the threat of Orlais._

_Please consider this, Fergus._

_Anya_

She quickly folded both missives and sealed them before sending for one of the Vigil's messengers. Placing both letters in a courier pouch, she sealed it with the crest of Amaranthine: two griffons rampant supporting the shield of Amaranthine.

"Yes, Arlessa Anya?" the young messenger asked, doffing his cap nervously.

"Reginald, you are to take this to Teyrn Fergus Cousland immediately. Stop for no-one. Should you be stopped, destroy the pouch immediately. Dworkin has devised what he calls a flash bomb for such a thing. Speak to him about it before you leave."

"Yes, Arlessa Anya." The young man took the pouch and hurried from the room.

A few minutes later she watched from her office window as he rode out. Rather than congratulate herself for accomplishing another task from her long list, she sent for Sigrun and Sarhal. Sigrun wouldn't be happy about being sent on a recruiting mission, and Sarhal wouldn't be happy about returning to the Circle of Magi, but there was no help for it. They needed healers, especially if a war was on the horizon.

Sarhal was the first to arrive, her keen dark eyes focused on Anya, a slight frown marring her dainty features. Anya waved her to a seat and gave her an apologetic smile. The young elf returned her smile with a knowing grin.

"You have that look about you, Commander," she commented. "No good ever comes of it."

Shaking her head, Anya didn't bother pretending otherwise. "I'd feign innocence but I doubt you'd be fooled. I'm afraid you and Sigrun are going to have to take a trip to the Kinloch Hold."

"The more I try to forget that place, the more I'm reminded of it. I suppose I should have expected this," the healer sighed.

"Expected what? What did I miss?" Sigrun asked, hurrying into the room and immediately throwing herself into the most comfortable chair available.

"The Commander wants us to go to Kinloch Hold."

"Ooh, where all the men wear skirts or robes? I can deal with that. Why are we going?"

Anya laughed at Sigrun's enthusiasm. "I was sure you'd be unhappy about being sent on a recruiting mission. You're always full of surprises."

Sigrun's blue eyes danced with mischief. "I just figure it's time to find out if Anders was lying about what male mages wear under their robes_,_ and Sarhal won't confirm or deny it."

Sarhal's sharp intake of breath at the mention of Anders made Sigrun clamp a hand over her mouth and the dwarf's eyes filled with remorse. "Ah, Annie, just slap me. I didn't mean anything by it."

"It's alright, Sigrun. I won't crumble at the mention of his name," Anya said softly. "In fact, I'll say his name too if it will make you feel better."

"So, you want us to go and find some mages. We can do that. How many do you want?"

"I want two healers and two battle mages but I'll settle for one of each. I know the mages suffered losses during the Battle of Denerim and I don't want to add too greatly to that."

"Why? Better to fight and die than wither away doing nothing in the Tower," Sarhal interjected, her soft voice laced with bitterness.

Anya felt a stirring of sympathy for Sarhal, who had fought courageously during the final battle against the Archdemon and had then promptly volunteered to join the Order. She had talked very little of life in the Tower, and Anya, having recognized her unwillingness to share her personal stories, hadn't asked about it.

"I am sure others would agree with you but I don't want to have the templars, Chantry and the First Enchanter upset with the Order. This will suffice for now. I've drawn up written authorization for your use of the Right of Conscription, should it be necessary, Sigrun.

"I also want at least two templars, but I think recruiting younger templars who have yet to take their vows might be a wiser course. I'll stop by the Denerim Monastery and see if there are suitable recruits to be found. It is my understanding that they don't begin taking lyrium until after they have taken their vows."

"Templar Caedmon doesn't take lyrium," Sarhal said so softly that Anya wasn't sure she had heard the woman.

"Who is Templar Caedmon and why doesn't he take lyrium?" Sigrun asked, clearly intrigued by the statement.

Anya was also intrigued and fascinated as she watched the usually unflappable mage blush a bright red. "He's just a templar I knew at the Tower. He said the lyrium made him feel queasy so he didn't take it."

"And he can still use his templar abilities?"

"Yes, Commander."

It would be a relief not to have to worry about their lyrium supply or about someone who was as addicted to it as Rolan had been. "In your opinion, would he make a good Warden?"

"Yes, and his chances of surviving the Joining are high. He's strong, both in mind and body." Here, the young elf stopped and her blush deepened.

"Then recruit him, even if you must use the Right of Conscription."

"Commander?"

"Sarhal, I believe you have been with us long enough to use my given name," Anya said, raising her brow slightly.

"Yes, it's just I was taught to use titles and honorifics at the Tower. It feels odd calling you Anya."

With a sympathetic nod, Anya asked her to continue and the young mage haltingly did so.

"There is a secret organization, a group of – of mages, who are apostates by definition, but who follow the practices taught at the Tower. They call themselves the Mage Collective and I – well, I know several of them. Aden is in Denerim, or he was, and can usually be found in a tavern just off the Market Square. I think it's called the Copper Fox. He might have someone who would want to join but please, be careful. They – they don't like outsiders much, but if I give you a letter of introduction, Aden will help."

Of course she would be nervous about mentioning apostates, especially in light of her fear over Sigrun's mention of Anders. Anya searched herself for any fear or anxiety at the prospect and found she didn't have any, much to her relief. Apostates made up the majority of Warden mages and, just because Anders had been a fool, it didn't mean every mage was willing to play host to a demon.

"Write the introduction and I'll find him. And Sarhal, please don't be so concerned about my feelings. I'm not made of glass."

"Yes, Commander."

Anya sighed. "And practice my name while you're gone. Perhaps when you return, you'll find it easier to use," she instructed, softening the gentle rebuke even further with a smile.

Sarhal laughed. "I'll do my best."

"That's all I can ask. Now, go and see Mistress Woolsey about the necessary funds for the trip. I want you to leave at first light."

She watched as the two women left the room, Sigrun excitedly asking Sarhal about the truth to the rumors of male mages. Before she could gather her thoughts, Nathaniel appeared, looking grim.

"Bad news?" she asked, standing and walking to him.

"I don't know. You have a pouch from Kirkwall."

Her heart came to a stop, as did her feet. "Oh?"

Without another word, he flipped the pouch to her and turned to walk away.

"You could have opened it, Nathaniel. You are my Second and, more than that, you are the one person I trust above all others."

"How do you know I didn't?" he asked quietly, and there was a hint of bitterness in his words, a simmering anger just below the surface and she was mystified by it. He had left that morning in high spirits, or at least high spirits for Nathaniel, teasing her and then kissing her in front of several people. Now, he seemed as if he was angry with her and she had no idea why. Did he think she was secretly writing to Anders? Would he ever truly believe that she was over Anders?

She tossed the pouch on her desk and limped over to stand before him, hands resting lightly on his forearms. She looked steadily at him, knowing that what she was about to say was important, even if she didn't know exactly why he was angry and grim.

"I know you didn't open the pouch because I _know_ you, Nathaniel. If you had opened it, you would have told me at once. Your honor would demand it of you. Why are you so grim?"

"Because I've finally come to terms with the fact that Anders will never be completely out of our lives," he replied somberly.

Her heart expanded as she skimmed her hands up his arms to cradle his face. "Perhaps not, but he hasn't any power over us, not unless we give it to him, so what does it matter?" she asked quietly. "And why do you think whatever is in the pouch has to do with Anders?"

It was apparent that he was struggling for an answer and she gently pulled him down for a kiss. "Don't bother answering. It's because you allowed yourself a few moments of happiness and now you're waiting for the punishment that invariably follows."

He looked over at the pouch and then back at her without answering_,_and she knew she had guessed correctly. "You are too afraid of happiness," she scolded tenderly, shaking her head.

"I heard that earlier today. Are you and Delilah conspiring behind my back?" he asked, his mood lightening almost imperceptibly.

"Absolutely. The best source of information about one's lover always comes from their sibling. I'm only surprised you haven't written to Raoul yet as he loves to gossip about me."

"Who says I haven't, Commander?" he shot back.

"You would not be calling me 'Commander' had you done so, Nathaniel," she replied with a grin.

"That's a very intriguing statement. Just what _would_I be calling you?"

"Never mind," she laughed, once more moving to her desk.

Whatever was in the letter, and the mystery of who sent it, could wait a few more minutes. Or longer. She eyed the worn brown leather pouch and then let her gaze wander to the window. From the look of the dark grey clouds piling up in the distance, it appeared as though they would need to pack their oiled-canvas cloaks.

There was a storm coming.


	19. Dead of Night

**A/N: **_My thanks to super-beta Lisa! I appreciate your help and your friendship more than I can say!  
>Now that the filler chapters are done (Ha! Who believes that?), there should be some action in upcoming chapters.<em>

**Dead of Night**

Pain jolted Anders awake, a sharp pain that seemed to shudder through his brain. He sat up, pressing his fingers against his temples as white hot pain stabbed at him. His mouth was dry and he was disoriented, his mind still groggy from sleep.

_Get out! Get out now, Anders!_

Anders flung the bedcovers back and struggled to find his footing. He grabbed his clothes and staff, unsure where he was going, but the urgency in Justice's voice told him that it was imperative he leave immediately. Befuddled, he stood, unsure of what to do.

The sound of furtive movements in the dark, just on the other side of his door, made him freeze in place, unable to breathe. He cocked his head, straining to hear; trying to understand what he was listening for. At first all he could hear was his blood thrumming through his veins and the pounding of his heart against his ribcage. He leaned forward, focusing on the noises that lay beneath his ragged breath and rapid heartbeat.

The sounds of footsteps, deadened by the straw on the clinic floor, suddenly sounded impossibly loud as he listened; footsteps that were drawing closer to the door of his small room off the clinic. There was more than one person out there if the susurration of noise was anything to go by. The realization sent his heart skittering and his mind racing.

_**Move, Anders! Now!**_

**What? Why should we run, Vengeance? You've never shied away from killing before. Why the sudden urgency to run? **

The pain was immediate and intense and brought Anders to his knees, tears welling in his eyes. Slowly, he stood up and his vision cleared. He was, as always, at the mercy of Vengeance. The peace he had felt earlier, working beside Wynne, was gone.

_**We do not have time to stand around listening to you question me, Anders. There are too many to fight without calling even more templar wrath down upon us. Move!**_

Anders blinked and looked around the room. It was too late to move. The only way out was through the clinic or trying to shimmy through the narrow window set high on the wall. He wasn't sure he could fit through the small space even if he _could _reach it. He dropped his clothes and staff before shoving his narrow cot under the window. The sound of the wooden legs against the stone floor sounded impossibly loud but he didn't have time for finesse. Fear was already pushing his blood too quickly through his veins and robbing him of breath.

The window wouldn't open and he lost precious seconds trying to force it. Grabbing his staff, he slammed it against the window with all of his strength and the window shattered, showering him with bits of glass. He sliced his palms on shards of glass as he tried to hoist himself out through the window. He cried out, hesitating, but Vengeance drove him on. Blood slickened the window-frame as he twisted, trying to pull himself through.

_**Do not hesitate, Anders. They will not hesitate to kill you should they capture you. **_

Nearly blind with panic, Anders continued to wiggle through the narrow gap and then the tops of his feet were scraping along the window frame and he was falling into a painful heap on the filthy floor of an alleyway, wearing nothing but his thin sleeping trousers and worn linen shirt. He wasted no time trying to heal his cuts, pushing himself up, and, without a backward glance, began to stumble along the alleyway.

The night sky was thick and dark with clouds and, as his eyes adjusted, he looked for any sign that someone was following him. He stopped frequently to listen for footsteps, turning into alleyways and waiting to see if someone moved past him. He appeared to be the only one abroad, and he wondered where the city guards were. He had no idea what time it was, but he found it eerie that he saw no-one on his way to Hawke's mansion.

It took him nearly an hour to make his way from Darktown to Hawke's estate. He'd paused only long enough to heal his cuts, and that was only because Vengeance had insisted, claiming he was leaving a trail even a blind man could follow. Sticking to side streets and alleyways until he entered Hightown, he spent most of his time climbing over the high walls of private gardens, trying to remember how many estates there were on Hawke's street, and hoping desperately that he wouldn't awaken anyone and bring the entire guard down on him. With a whistling sigh of relief, he finally fell into Hawke's garden and lay on the cool, dewy grass, catching his breath.

Once his heartbeat had steadied and he could breathe normally again, he pulled himself up and stood staring at the darkened windows, counting. If he was correct, her window was on the second floor on the far left. How was he supposed to get her attention without waking the entire household?

He looked around, wishing for more light and then risked creating a wisp of soft green light that illuminated the rosebushes near her window. He picked up a few of the small rocks and pebbles that lined the rose garden. The first one missed her window with a sharp _crack _as it hit the stone wall beside it. The second found its mark ,and, a few seconds later, soft light streamed through the window as heavy drapes were pushed aside.

"Margaret, it's Anders," he whispered as loudly as he dared.

"Anders? Stay there, I'll be right down," she called back softly, the surprise evident in her hushed tones.

Reynard was beside her when she stepped into the garden, with a small lamp held high. Anders felt relief pour into him at her calm acceptance of his reason for arriving in the dead of night. Without preamble, he told her about the visitors to the clinic and his escape through the narrow window.

"Come in and let's look at those cuts of yours, and find some of Carver's old clothes for you."

Carver's clothes hung on Anders's thinner frame but he was grateful for the warmth. He watched her golden head bent over his outstretched palms, wondering how she managed to take everything so calmly and not ask any of the questions she must have about his appearing in her garden in the middle of the night.

"As soon as you're up to it, we'll go to the clinic," she said quietly, looking up and meeting his eyes.

"What? Hawke, that's insane! They may still be there!"

"If they are then we'll deal with it, Anders. Don't worry," she added, smiling confidently. "I know of a secret passage we can use. It comes out very near your clinic."

Why did she trust him so readily? Why was she so willing to help him? The questions tumbled in his tired brain, plaguing him as he followed her down a steep flight of steps into a dark, dry basement.

_**It does not matter why, allow her to assist us.**_

**She doesn't need to get caught up in our cause.**

_**We need her. If she is willing to assist us, you will accept her help.**_

**We don't need her. I don't want to drag her into this.**

_**Now you develop a conscience? How disingenuous of you. You can accept her help now, as a friend, or demand it later as a captive. The choice is yours, Anders**_.

**Justice, what do you think?**

_I fear there is really no choice, Anders, despite what Vengeance would have you believe. We must hope that our need of her will be minimal._

"Thank you, Hawke, for everything."

They continued their descent, the way lit by her lamp and his wisp. They passed through a room full of wine casks and then she stopped in front of a large tapestry hanging on the wall in a small alcove. She pushed it aside and inserted a key into a door hidden behind the floor-to-ceiling wall covering. A narrow, dank passage led into the dark and she stepped into it, beckoning him to follow.

Ten minutes later, they stepped out from behind a tall stack of empty crates, just a few paces from his clinic. He had passed that stack of crates countless times and never knew there was anything behind them, let alone a passage between his clinic and her estate.

There was nobody in the clinic. Anders lit every lamp and examined every nook and cranny but found no evidence of anyone having come in to the clinic after hours. The straw that he scattered fresh each night was undisturbed, except for their own footprints. Everything was as he had left it when he'd cleaned the clinic the evening before.

He rubbed a hand across his brow wearily. Something was wrong. He had heard the sounds of people in the clinic, people who were trying to be stealthy. But now he stood, feeling foolish that he'd brought Margaret out in the middle of the night to help him when it appeared he hadn't ever been in danger to begin with.

"I'm…I'm sorry Hawke. I don't know what to say," he finally said, scrubbing at his face as if he could scrub away the embarrassment.

"There's no need to apologize, Anders. I'm sure you felt endangered, and I've been meaning to show this passage to you for ages. I think it's best if you come to the mansion this way after you close the clinic each evening."

"I can't! I won't put you in jeopardy too, Hawke!"

"Nonsense, Anders. The mansion is huge and there are some very cozy rooms off the wine cellar that you can use. I'll have Bodahn find some laborers to set up a sitting room and bedroom for you down there. "In the meantime, come back to the mansion tonight and I'll put you up in one of the guestrooms."

Anders hesitated, moving to his bedroom and staring at the broken glass littering his cot and the floor. He would never feel safe sleeping there again, he knew that. He turned to look at Margaret. She was smiling at him, an encouraging and confident smile.

"I – thank you, Hawke."

It was not until he was stretched out in his new bed less than an hour later that he wondered if he had imagined the entire thing, if he had been led to believe that people had broken into his clinic. He wondered if he had been manipulated to begin with.

_**Anders, you have a very suspicious mind. One would almost call you paranoid.**_

There was far too much triumph in Vengeance's words for Anders's liking, and he found himself unable to sleep.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Sleep teased her, drifting away from her grasp like wind through grass. She listened to Nathaniel's deep, relaxed breathing, hoping it would lull her to sleep, but it remained stubbornly elusive. With a soft sigh of resignation, she rose and quietly padded across the room, gathering her clothes along the way.

After dressing, she slipped out of the door and closed it with a soft click. Lamplight flickered along the dark stone walls as she made her way along the hallway and down the stairs. The sounds of the Vigil were muted by the lateness of the hour as she made her way to her office. The shadows made her faintly uneasy, and she hurried along the dimly-lit corridor to her office.

Diffused light from the lamp on her desk robbed the shadows of their power. Once they were dispelled, she knelt in front of the banked fire and stirred the ashes with a poker before adding kindling. Within a few minutes the fire burned brightly, and the chill in the air was gone. She stood and made her way to her desk, rubbing absently at the pain in her hip, caused by the dampness from the approaching storm. Sarhal thought it would diminish over time and Anya fervently hoped the healer was right.

Once she was warm, and the ache no longer a distraction, Anya settled behind her desk and began to go through the constant stack of papers. Eddelbrek wanted more workers for his fields, as well as a stronger military presence because he was suffering from pilferages. His neighbor, Hadley, wanted her to investigate Eddelbrek for monopolizing the wheat market. She thought that the best possible solution was to put both men in a room of hungry citizens and have them decide the fate of the two men. Both Eddelbrek and Hadley were self-serving and greedy, and had taken advantage of the state of the arling while Rendon Howe had been in Denerim and Highever.

As she trimmed her quill, trying to formulate a response that would appease them both and, at the same time, reinforce her position as their arlessa, her eyes fell on the leather courier pouch. The seal was vaguely familiar, something she had seen on a crest somewhere while in Kirkwall. She frowned in concentration, her hands neglecting their task. A large, highly polished shield hanging over a desk in an office in Kirkwall and then the memory of her visit to Margaret Hawke's estate swept into her mind.

Carefully setting the quill-knife and quill aside, she reached tentative fingers toward the smooth leather. She had told Hawke to contact her if she ever needed anything. Anya picked up the pouch and broke the seal. Inside were two letters, one folded neatly wearing the same seal; the other a grimy, smudged piece of vellum folded and refolded, held closed by a single slash of red wax that looked like a streak of blood.

With shaking fingers, she picked up the smudged vellum and turned it over, immediately recognizing the bold, curving script that spelled out 'Annie,' which told her who the missive was from. How many notes had he left on her pillow during their time together? How many love notes had she found in her pack when she had traveled without him? Countless ones but, in the end, it hadn't mattered. Nothing they had shared had mattered, and she would not, by the Maker, allow it to matter now.

Without hesitation, she stood and made her way to the fireplace, tossing the unopened letter into the flames without remorse. There was no anger or sorrow, just a slight irritation that he could not find it within him to leave her in peace.

"You didn't have to do that for me," Nathaniel said quietly from the doorway.

Anya spun around, reaching out and grabbing the edge of the mantelpiece to steady herself. It was unusual for her to be caught off guard by a Warden. As she stood looking at him, she felt the rush of pin-pricks in her blood that was unique to Wardens. Had she not been so preoccupied, she would have felt it sooner. Not that it mattered; she would still have burned the unread note.

Nathaniel was leaning against the doorjamb, shirtless and hair unbound, his feet bare. His expression was closed, and she felt a flare of annoyance. When would he trust her? When would he trust _himself_? When would he believe in them? Ever? She forced herself not to go to him; offering him a raised brow, instead.

"I didn't do it for you, Nathaniel. If I'd had the least bit of interest in what Anders had to say to me I would have read it."

He pushed himself away from the door and moved silently towards her, as sinuous and sleek as a panther. There was a feral grace to his movements; power held in check, but ready to be unleashed without hesitation. He was the most graceful man she'd ever known, and it seemed ironic that she was now the least graceful woman she knew.

"No curiosity at all?" he asked and, for the briefest moment, she saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

Love welled in her heart as she realized that he was trying to let his emotions show, but that he found it difficult to do so. It was progress and she wanted him to know she appreciated it, without fussing about it. From experience, she knew fussing was something he did _not_ like. Reaching out, she brushed his dark hair away from his face, smiling. "If it will make you feel better, I'll pretend."

He captured her hand and brought it, palm up, to his lips. "No, that's not necessary," he replied with a hint of amusement.

"Good, then you can help me sort out Hadley and Eddelbrek, or you can go back to bed like any sensible person would."

"What are Hadley and Eddelbrek up to now?"

"Whining and complaining and doing precious little to keep the recovery process moving forward. They don't seem to realize the extent of the devastation from the Blight. Do you think we should send them on a goodwill tour of Ferelden? I'm confident that once they saw the amount of tainted land, they'd be a bit more willing to share their good fortune. Don't you agree?"

Nathaniel's snort of derision made his opinion of the two men obvious. She sighed, knowing that the matter wouldn't be resolved easily. She found the duties of arlessa onerous on the best of days, and it appeared that for every step forward in the recovery there was a side step or a step backward. She cast a glance back at her stack of correspondence and freed another sigh.

"You really ought to get some sleep, Nathaniel. We'll be leaving right after breakfast, and I intend to push hard for Denerim."

"What of you, Anya? Don't you require sleep?"

Anya turned away and hobbled back to her desk, knowing that if she remained in such close proximity to him she would be tempted to go back to bed, and neither of them would get any sleep. "Of course not, Nathaniel. Sleep is for mere mortals," she replied with a wry laugh.

He came to stand behind her, an arm snaking around her waist, and she allowed herself to lean back, her eyes drifting shut momentarily. She felt the silk of his hair brush against her skin as he bent to kiss her neck, before he stepped away again.

"Have you been using the balm Sarhal made for your hip?" he asked, once more attending to business.

"Now you sound depressingly like my old nurse, D'arcy. She would natter on about protecting my hands with the lotion that the apothecary provided, and using emollients on my hair to keep it from being so wild. Her nattering never worked on me, so I wouldn't bother, were I you."

And there it was; a flashing smile, as rare and fleeting as a shooting star. She wondered if he had any idea how attractive his smile was? Or how seldom he allowed himself to show it? Or how much lighter her heart felt to see him moving beyond the blinding bitterness and need for revenge he felt towards Anders?

"I can't decide if you just called me a nagging old nanny or yourself a willful, stubborn child," he said with a shake of his head.

"This from the man who refuses to go back to bed unless I do?" she teased, sitting down and breaking the seal on Hawke's letter.

_Anya,_

_I am afraid it was my idea for Anders to write the letter that I've enclosed. He felt such a need to express his contrition that I offered to assist by sending it to you. He was sure you would not be receptive to it, otherwise. In truth, he has seemed much more at peace since he wrote it so perhaps that's all that is necessary. I trust I haven't inflicted any pain in sending it to you._

_Please let my brother know all is well here. Mother is happier than I have seen in a very long time and she has even hinted that she has a new suitor. I would ask that you let Carver know that we both miss him._

_I remain your friend,_

_Margaret Hawke_

Anya wasn't sure how she felt about Anders and his needs outweighing what might be her own needs on the matter. In a way, it served to illustrate what their relationship had truly been: his needs and her accommodating them. Lesson learned, she thought grimly. The dull ache in her hip seemed to agree.

She set the letter aside, vowing to herself that Carver would write to his sister when they returned from Denerim. In the meantime she set about answering Eddelbrek. She suggested that should his prices remain prohibitively high, she would be forced to recall her soldiers, retract all offers of future assistance, and concentrate on assisting farmers more willing to set a fair market price for their goods.

Next, she penned a letter to Hadley, suggesting that if he spent less time on trivial matters, and more on tilling his own fertile land, he might find a market for his wheat, as well as an arlessa willing to assist him in his endeavors. She signed her name with a flourish and, once the ink was dry, set it on top of the letter to Eddelbrek. She would hand the entire matter over to Varel in the morning.

With the immediate problems solved, she glanced up to see Nathaniel, legs stretched out towards the fire, hands clasped and riding low on his stomach, head tilted back, and eyes closed. He had fallen asleep while waiting for her to finish her work, and she was touched that he had stayed with her without making her feel guilty.

More than that, it came to her that her relationship with Nathaniel was as much a partnership, and friendship, as it was a romance. They would, and did, disagree. Both of them were stubborn, and he was far too proud, and she was often too willful. Yet she never felt the need to placate him, to acquiesce simply to please him. She knew, instinctively, that if she did, he would not respect her for it. Nor was he swayed by her arguments, not if he believed he was right. He challenged her, making her look more deeply inside herself, and she hoped she did the same for him.

Rising from her desk, she went to him, kneeling in front of his chair. She let her fingers trace a path down a long, narrow scar, smoothed and silvered by time, running from just below his right nipple to just above his navel. He shivered and blinked, his breath shuddering as he woke up.

"I take it you're done, Commander?" he asked in a sleep-roughened voice. "Does this mean you're ready to return to bed?"

"That depends," she answered, allowing her fingers to retrace the same path along the scar.

"Oh? What does it depend upon?" he asked, reaching out with quick reflexes and capturing her fingers in a strong grip.

"Who's asking, of course. Is it the nagging old nanny or Naughty Nate?"

"Death is too good for that dwarf," he muttered before dragging her up onto his lap and claiming her lips.


	20. The Taste of Betrayal

**A/N: **_My heartfelt thanks to all who are reading, reviewing and alerting!_  
><em>Thanks, Lisa, for your continuing help in beta-reading, and more importantly, for your friendship!<em>

**The Taste of Betrayal**

"Oh Margaret, really! First that elf with those strange markings coming and going at all hours of the night and now an apostate? How could you?"

Margaret stared at her mother, temporarily at a loss for words as shock and disappointment chased away all other emotions. Muscles became taut, a bowstring ready to snap when plucked. _How could _I_? How could _she_? _Those two questions beat steadily at her brain, a pounding rhythm that brought with it the cold, hard edge of anger. What right did her mother have to condemn her actions? Why would she even think to do so? Surely she knew Margaret was doing exactly what her father would have done?

"How could I not, Mother?" she asked, her anger a whisper of frost in her veins that was reflected in her tone.

"It was all well and fine when we were living with Gamlen, away from the eyes of my friends, but we have responsibilities now. You are, for all intents and purposes, an advisor to Viscount Dumar and your actions reflect on the Amell family."

Her anger thawed, became hot, and words perched on her tongue, ready to scald the woman in front of her. When had her mother become a stranger to her? What had happened to the woman who helped her neighbors wherever they'd lived in Ferelden? Who'd insisted that Old Barlin needed assistance after his wife had passed away? Who had worked with the Lothering chantry to feed and clothe the poor? Who was this perfectly groomed and gowned woman who stood before her, looking down her aristocratic nose at her daughter?

"I'm sure you meant the _Hawke_ family, Mother," Margaret began softly, "I'm sure you are as proud as I am to carry the Hawke name."

Color suffused her Mother's cheeks. "With wealth comes responsibilities, Margaret. I know this life is new to you, that you are still adjusting to your responsibilities, and I am only trying to help you learn. I'm trying to prevent you from making mistakes."

"Responsibilities, Mother? What responsibilities would those be? Which dress to wear when visiting the Tremonts so as not to offend their sensibilities? What sweetmeats to serve with tea when the De Launcets call so they will forget you ran off with an apostate?" Margaret asked, her voice curiously devoid of the intense anger that set her blood on fire.

"I will not have you talk to me in that manner, Margaret Hawke!"

"And I will not have you betray everything Father stood for because you care what these narrow-minded, posturing, _nobles_ think," Margaret replied, contempt underscoring each word.

They stood facing each other, more strangers than relatives. Silence hung in the air, recriminations left unsaid mixing with the scent of roses. Margaret's stomach lurched, and she felt sick with shock at the widening gulf that divided mother and daughter.

"Lest you have forgotten, Mother, Malcolm Hawke was an apostate. Yet you ran off with him and left your pretty gowns and expensive jewelry and noble friends behind. He worked tirelessly to give you a decent life, and you seemed quite happy with it."

She watched the color drain from her mother's cheeks, leaving the older woman pale and drawn. A part of her, some voice that belonged to her father's daughter, told her to apologize, to try to understand what her mother had gone through, what she had given up, and what she had lost. Her anger refused to listen.

"I didn't go on that damned expedition so you could lord it over those who are less fortunate than we are. I didn't spend a year in servitude so you could forget what father sacrificed for you. I didn't fight to get this mansion back to have you sit in judgment over me. What I did, I did for the family."

"What you _did_?" her mother repeated in disbelief and outrage. "Your father entrusted this family to you and what you _did_ was kill Bethany and lose Carver to a life he didn't deserve! You betrayed his trust, Margaret, not I."

Pain mixed with her anger, awoke her guilt and momentarily stayed her tongue. Looking at the portrait hanging over the fireplace, of an Amell she had never known, Margaret struggled to find her equilibrium. She had tried, Maker knew she had tried, to carry out her father's wishes to protect and guard the family, to keep them all safe. But she had failed and there wasn't a day that went by that she didn't castigate herself for it. Had she betrayed his trust? Not deliberately, but in that moment, it didn't matter what her intent had been.

Turning away from the accusation in her mother's eyes, Hawke swept out of the library and up to her room. She pushed away the tears that begged to fall as she changed into her plainest robe and took up her father's old staff, trying to quell the bitter voice that screamed at her that she was the betrayer, not her mother.

Measured footsteps brought her back to the library. Her mother was still in the room, hands clasped in front of her as she stared up at the portrait over the fireplace. Margaret was about to speak when Bodahn came in, his voice cheerful and loud.

"Lady Leandra, flowers have arrived for you. From that suitor of yours, I'll wager. Where shall I put them?"

"In my sitting room, Bodahn. And have tea sent there as well."

"Immediately," Bodahn replied and gave a brief bow in her direction.

Margaret opened her mouth to say something, anything, to break the silence after Bodahn left, and found she had nothing to say. Nothing she trusted herself to say. Turning on her heel, she left the room, the taste of ashes on her tongue.

She arrived at the clinic, surprising Anders. She saw the tilt of his mouth when she explained she was there to help him. The voice within her stilled its constant refrain.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Deep tones of pinks and purples peeked shyly out from behind the dark, ominous clouds. Anya, standing on the steps of the Vigil, watched as Sigrun, Sarhal and a contingent of soldiers departed for Kinloch Hold. Both Sigrun and Sarhal, riding in the wagon that would hold the returning recruits, were in good spirits and Sigrun stood to wave once more, a brilliant smile on her face. Anya envied them their trip. They were sure to have a great deal more fun than she would have in Denerim.

Once they were gone, she returned to her office for a brief meeting with Varel and Captain Garavel, both of whom were waiting for her. Garavel was standing ramrod straight, his face carved in stone. He saluted when he saw her, his expression grave. Varel was reading her letters to Eddelbrek and Hadley and nodding, the hint of a smile on his face.

"Deftly done, Commander," he said quietly, and the approval in his voice made Anya grin.

"Thank you, Varel. I doubt either of them will be happy, but they should settle down, at least for now. There are enough problems in the arling without having those two feuding over which of them is the greater villain.

"Captain Garavel," she continued, turning to stare at her Captain of the Guard, "be sure your scouts know the importance of observing the islands without they themselves being observed. It does them no good to reconnoiter if their presence is known."

"My scouts are well-trained for such a mission, Commander," he assured her with stiff formality. Oh Maker, I've offended him yet again, Anya thought, hiding a smile. He was a proud, prickly man who took his duties seriously and became offended if he felt his abilities were being questioned.

Offering him a reassuring smile, she replied, "Of course, Garavel. I have every confidence in their skills. I'll expect a full report on their findings upon my return."

"You shall have it," he answered, unbending slightly.

"Remember, they are not to wear their uniforms, nor are they to engage in any fighting unless it can't be avoided. Otherwise, Varel will be most displeased with me for allowing this operation while I'm away."

"Yes, Commander Anya," the man replied, his voice once again stiff.

"Varel, I leave the Vigil in your very capable hands. If luck is with us, we should return within a week," she continued, not bothering to soothe her captain's wounded pride.

Varel gave a formal bow. "Maker guide your path, Commander."

She gathered her leather riding gloves and waxed canvas cloak from a nearby chair and strode out of the Vigil. She glanced up at the sky, where the deep violet clouds continued to stack on top of each other and blot out the remaining sky. If they hurried, they would stay ahead of the storm that continued to gather in the northeast.

"Warden Carver, take the rear guard! Warden Gideon, take the lead!" she called as she placed a foot in her stirrup and hoisted herself into the saddle.

Nicodemus pranced and side-stepped as she tied her cloak around her shoulders. She guided him with her knees and then reached for the reins. "Move out!" she commanded and flicked her reins. They walked their horses through the courtyard and to the main gate, mindful of the soldiers and workers going about their duties.

Nathaniel brought his horse beside hers, his eyes scanning the horizon. She glanced at him, and then back at the road. "Good morning, Nathaniel. You rose very early."

"I thought it best to finish packing for the trip. My commander has quite a temper when kept waiting."

Anya flashed him a smile. "She most certainly does not!" she protested.

Nathaniel's snort of disbelief only made Anya's smile wider. "If it pleases you to believe that, Commander, I won't try and disabuse you of the notion."

"Nathaniel, tell me you didn't leave so early with the noble intention of protecting my reputation."

"I doubt that is any longer possible," he replied dryly, giving spur to his horse as they cleared the gates of the Vigil.

They rode hard until midday, stopping only long enough to eat their oatcakes and dried apples, washed down with warm cider. Carver stuffed his food into his mouth like some ravenous beast, so busy eating he didn't join in the conversation. Gideon teased him about still being a growing boy.

"I'm not a boy," Carver growled around a mouthful of oatcake.

Anya thought that actually proved Gideon's point but held her tongue. "I've set up shield training for you, Warden Carver. As soon as we return, you'll work with Tammerlyn and Dawber."

Carver nodded, his cheeks puffed out from the oatcakes and dried apples he'd stuffed in his mouth. When he was finished chewing, he grinned at her. "I've used a shield a time or two."

"Good, then your training shouldn't take long. With only one healer, we've found that a shield can help minimize injuries."

"I do fine with my broadsword," the young man boasted.

"Yes, I've seen your training and I'm sure you're quite skilled in battle, but there is another reason for using a shield. We fight as a team in the Wardens. A shield warrior and a dual-wielding warrior make a formidable pairing and are able to keep the darkspawn occupied so that archers and mages can take the enemy down quickly and efficiently. The broadsword makes it too dangerous for any other warrior to fight close in. The sweep of the sword, as well as the breadth and length of it are deadly for anyone nearby."

Carver nodded, eyeing the three archers. Comprehension brightened the young man's smile. "Now I understand why I'm the only swordsman in the group."

Anya stood, announcing an end to their brief stop. She checked her bow, sheathed on the left side of her saddle, and her quiver that rested on the right side. If they were going to encounter trouble, the approach to the Wending Wood would be the perfect place for it; Pilgrim's Path narrowed and twisted as it wound through the woods. They would be upon it with the hour, and the inn they were planning on staying at was another three hours past that.

The day had become unusually warm, and they were ahead of the storm, but the air was heavy and still. Anya removed her cloak and rolled it tightly, slipping it into her saddlebag. Before she could put her booted foot into the stirrup and pull herself into her saddle, she felt Nathaniel's hands on her waist.

"Allow me," he offered quietly, and, with flattering ease, lifted her up and helped her into the saddle.

"Hey, you could at least offer to help me, too," Gideon complained with a smirk.

"Carver, help Gideon," Anya instructed and then laughed as Carver spluttered indignantly.

Their good humor lasted until they neared the Wending Wood. A mist settled over the landscape; light but disquieting. They were forced to slow down and the horses were fidgety and nervous. Noise echoed eerily, dissonant and muffled. As they continued on, the mist thickened until it became a shroud. Their voices were muted and distorted. It was only her ability to sense the taint in her Wardens that let her know where they were in the blindingly thick mist. Her senses were straining against the greyness that surrounded them, and she was leaning forward, her eyes trying to penetrate the dense fog.

"Should we turn back and wait for the fog to lift?" she asked, her voice swallowed by the murky gloom, as if the fog were a living, breathing entity that wanted to devour them. The thought made her shiver and she felt rivulets of sweat tickling the skin of her back and forehead. Her face and hair were wet from the moisture-laden fog.

"Best to keep moving forward, Commander," Gideon said, but his voice was so low and disjointed that she had trouble telling what direction it came from. Was he still ahead of her? Behind her? He seemed all around her.

Her nerves rebelled as she tried to see beyond her horse, straining against the mist, and her fingers itched to pull her daggers from their scabbards. Their bows would not only be useless in such dense fog, but dangerous as well. It would be far too easy to miss an enemy and kill a Warden. Her mouth went dry at the thought.

Despite how alert they all were, the attack caught them by surprise. Ghostly figures loomed out of the mist, only to be lost again within the fog. Hulking shapes of men rose out of the ground, frightening their horses, to disappear before Anya could get more than a glimpse of them. Vague impressions, insubstantial, as if they were wraiths, not humans, surrounded them and were gone again. It was like dueling the shadows.

Another form took shape directly in front of her, and she felt a sharp tug on the reins. Nicodemus reared, pawing at the air and Anya felt her grip on the reins loosen. Her heart thundered and she cried out in alarm. She fought to bring her horse under control, and as soon as Nicodemus's front hooves hit the ground she slid out of the saddle, slapping his flank as hard as she could. Nicodemus lunged forward and disappeared, the sound of his neighing dying away as he was enveloped by the dense fog.

Daggers drawn, she paused, trying to get her bearings as well as those of her Wardens. Carver cried out and she felt a slight stir in the air as he pulled his sword from the scabbard on his back. He was too close to her and if he swung his greatsword, she'd feel its blade.

"Carver, use your daggers!" she hissed and then the mist in front of her exploded as a figure appeared before her, shortsword swinging.

"Capture the woman and kill the rest!" a disembodied voice shouted.

Throwing herself to the ground, she rolled to the left and brought herself up, hoping she had calculated correctly and was now behind her attacker. She narrowed her eyes, trying to make out the shape of her assailant. She lunged forward, daggers held tightly and she felt them connect with flesh. A single scream rose from her target and then a sword bit into the flesh of her upper arm. She cried out and ripped her daggers from her attacker. He fell into her, his weight sending her to the ground, forcing the air out of her lungs and sending her daggers flying off into the mist as he landed on top of her.

Stunned, Anya lay there for precious seconds, fighting for air, and gritting her teeth to prevent the scream that rose to sit in her throat, waiting to be released. She finally shoved the heavy body off her and rolled over, searching with desperate fingers for her daggers. She crawled forward, hands outstretched, eyes watering with the strain of trying to see what was going on around her. Her scream escaped as she felt a hand clamp around her left ankle, pulling at her. She kicked back with her right leg, struggling to shake the hand loose while still searching for her weapons. A surprised grunt from her captor echoed around her and was lost to the greedy mist that seemed to be choking her.

To her relief, her fingers plucked at something that felt like a piece of wood, and her hand closed around it. Struggling to roll over, she kicked out again, grunting with pain as her hip caught and a muscle seemed to snap. She sat up, swinging the piece of wood she'd found, hoping it was thick enough and long enough to do some damage. She felt a reverberation through her arm as the wood connected with her unseen attacker, and she heard a soft thud as a body hit the ground, the hand that held her ankle falling away.

Rather than standing, she stayed low to the ground, still searching for her daggers, but not letting go of her makeshift weapon. She could feel the other Wardens near her and she called out softly to them. Blood was mixing with her sweat and she realized she had somehow cut her head during the struggle. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and then continued to slowly crawl through the oppressive mist.

"Anya?" a hoarse voice whispered, so close she could almost feel a wind against her cheek.

"Nathaniel," she breathed in relief. "I've lost my daggers."

Before he could respond, she felt a shift in the air around her and then a hand clasped her braid, pulling her head back so sharply she could feel her neck muscles protest. A cry forced its way out of her throat and her eyes welled with tears at the unexpected pain.

"Got her!" a deep voice called triumphantly.

"The hell you do!" Nathaniel cried, and she felt another stirring in the air, and a vague shadow moved to her left as Nathaniel launched himself at the man who held her by her braid.

She didn't dare swing the piece of wood, for fear of hitting Nathaniel. Instead, she reached her hands up to clamp around the hands that held her braid and she pulled at a finger with all her strength until she felt it snap. A raw scream of pain, followed by a string of curses, hovered in the air around her. The man's grip loosened and then fell away completely and she dropped to the ground, scuttling away.

"Protect the Commander!" Nathaniel shouted.

Anya growled angrily at his words, and was about to countermand his order when she finally found one of her daggers. She scrambled to her feet and bent low, listening to the deadened sounds of a battle going on around her. She moved slowly through the fog, cursing silently at how helpless she felt.

The hand seemed to appear as a separate entity as it snaked out of the fog and closed around her mouth. She struggled, turning her head from side to side, furious and frustrated. How could they manage to find her when she could find nothing? She tried to bite the hand that held her and was just about to throw her head back in the hope of hitting some vital part of the man holding her when she felt the cold press of steel against her neck.

"Move or call out and I'll make sure your men suffer." The whispered promise was a hot breath brushing against her skin, causing her to shiver.

Trying not to give in to the fear pressing in on her as heavily as the fog was, she twisted her head to the left and then used all her strength to snap it back. The blade grazed her flesh before falling away and she felt a gush of warm, sticky fluid against her nape. She had hit his nose hard enough to break it, she assumed, and then, as her attacker's hands fell away, she turned and brought her hands up in front of her, connecting with his face. Her fingers scraped along the man's face until she reached her target and, grasping his nose with her fingers, she gave it a savage twist. He let out a long, tortured scream and then fell backwards. She went with him, unwilling to let go of his nose until she was sure he was incapacitated.

The muffled sounds of fighting had ceased during her struggle with her unseen assailant. Anya lay on her back, gasping for breath, lungs on fire. She tried to calm her mind and steady her breathing. She was afraid to call out, unsure who might still be waiting in the mist, so she reached out through her tainted blood, searching for her Wardens.

Her panic began to smother her, making it nearly impossible to breathe. She could only sense two other Wardens. She pushed herself up and groped her way through the fog in search of those she could feel, fighting the need to cry out. Her hands out in front of her, pawing at the thick mist, batting it out of the way, she struggled to find them.

Not Nathaniel. Not Nathaniel. Her mind continued the litany as she inched her way forward. She tripped over a body and fell to her knees. Please, not Nathaniel. And then she felt the stinging of nettles in her blood and she paused, still on her knees. Three. She sensed three Wardens now and a sob broke free, a low guttural sound of relief.

They found each other through their tainted blood and huddled close, silent, waiting to make sure they were alone. She was close enough to the others that she could see the faint outline of each of them, disheveled but alive, and apparently without serious injuries. She found Nathaniel's hand and slipped hers into it, squeezing softly. He squeezed hers in reply and then removed his hand. The fear that had gripped her heart eased.

"Nathaniel, you know this area better than any of us. Will the fog dissipate any time soon?"

"We're an hour ahead of the storm. The fog will clear out as soon as the wind rises."

Anya stood and whistled for her horse, once again straining to hear anything beyond their small circle. Her hip and leg cried out in protest with each step she took and she could feel the sting of sweat crawling along wounds. She whistled again, fighting back the tears of frustration that trembled along her lashes.

Within the hour, their horses returned and the mist began to lighten. They tended their wounds and Anya was thankful that none of them had been badly hurt. A few cuts and bruises, lacerations and scrapes, but nothing a few poultices and potions couldn't fix.

Once her own wounds had been taken care of by Gideon, who had the most medical training of the four, Anya was able to count and search the bodies of their attackers. Their armor was plain and serviceable, completely unremarkable, and Anya felt a stirring of disappointment.

Their weapons were also plain, for the most part, except for one small dagger, still held by one of her attackers. She pried it from his fist, and dread invaded her blood. The craftsmanship was hauntingly familiar. She turned the dagger over and over until Nathaniel reached over and stilled her hands.

"What is it?" he asked in concern.

She let her thumb trace the length of the blade, moving down to the maker's mark. Silently, she handed the blade to Nathaniel.

"There should be a mark etched into the blade, at the base of it. If I'm correct, it will be a crown above two crossed rapiers," she finally replied in a voice that was as brittle as autumn leaves.

Nathaniel looked closely at the blade and then nodded. "Whose mark is it?"

It felt as if the world was tilting and sinking at the same time. Bile rose in her throat, as bitter as betrayal.

"It is the mark of the Imperial Bladesmith."

The implication was there and it was Nathaniel's sharp whistle that told her he understood perfectly what she had refused to give voice to.

Carver spoke up, impatience ringing in his voice, "What's that mean?"

"There are only two groups of Orlesians who are permitted to carry weapons made by the Imperial Bladesmith: The Imperial Guard and the Chevaliers."

The storm finally broke and the rain sluiced down her cheeks, camouflaging her sudden tears.


	21. Hunger

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for your beta skills and your encouragement!_

**Hunger**

Hawke had been Maker-sent, helping him clean the clinic, and assisting with the patients. He had seen her pressing coins into the hands of several of the refugees who sought his healing. She had smiled and talked to everyone, but the smile had seldom reached her eyes. There was a tension in her shoulders, and a suspicious brightness in her eyes, but Anders didn't ask her why she had come to help, or why he'd caught the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes. He was happy enough for the company that he didn't want to chase her away. Even after she left, her essence seemed to linger.

As he left the clinic, heading for The Hanged Man, he wondered what Anya was doing and if she was well. Memories of evenings spent in the main dining hall with the other Wardens, playing cards or telling stories, pushed away other thoughts. A lifetime ago, but the longing to return to that time was powerful.

Loneliness gnawed at his resolve like a dog worrying a bone. He had sworn that he wouldn't become attached to any of his 'friends' in Kirkwall; that he could survive without another's touch. Working beside Hawke in his make-shift clinic had made Anders realize the difficulty of such a vow. He missed the touch of a woman with a hunger that left him almost dizzy with yearning for _any_ human contact. But he didn't want to hurt anyone, not after what he'd done to Anya. Yet, he couldn't deny the longing in him to be touched, to be accepted. He longed for a gentle touch, a tender word, anything that reminded him that he was not alone. Not that he was ever truly alone, he reflected bitterly.

_You would dishonor Anya in this way?_

**I can't dishonor what I no longer have, Justice. She's moved on and I think it's time I did, as well.**

_She moved on because of this same need?_ There was sorrow in the voice, and confusion. Anders, walking along the rain-swept streets, shivered. Was it the cool wind that made his blood seem colder, or the aching regret in Justice's voice?

_**Humans crave the touch of others, Justice. Surely you know that by now. The question is, Anders, why you would choose to desire a woman whose affections are focused on another.**_

**I didn't say anything about Hawke**. Too late, he realized that his quick denial had only confirmed the truth of Vengeance's words.

_**You respect her talents, admire her strength. There is logic in desiring her. In fact, I approve of your interest. She will be of great benefit to our cause.**_

_No, Anders, do not use her as you did Anya. Have you learned nothing from your past mistakes?_

_**How curious, Justice. Was it not you who desired Anya? Did you not want to merge with Anders to experience what physical love felt like?**_

_No! Cease your accusations!_

_**Now, now, spirit. How just is it to lie? How noble is such craven behavior? You hungered for her, Justice. You hungered for that which you were not permitted to have. **_

Justice fell silent and Anders was grateful for the respite. He would not allow Vengeance to use Margaret Hawke if he could prevent it. The ache of loneliness would pass, as it always had. He would not do to Hawke what he had done to Anya, no matter how lonely he was, not unless she showed an interest in him. Anders shook his head. She was interested in only one man at the moment, and that wasn't apt to change.

_**Do not underestimate your charms, Anders.**_

**Get out! Just get out and shut up!**

The voices stilled, the turmoil in him receding into the shadows that marked the barriers he was striving to erect in his mind in the hope of conquering the constant noise in his head. He took several deep breaths, counting softly to himself. He would not let the others erode his calm. He would _not_. _He_ was in control, not Justice, and certainly not Vengeance.

He blinked, surprised to find himself standing in front of his destination without remembering the details of his journey. He straightened his shoulders, fixing a brittle smile on his face as he pushed open the door of The Hanged Man. He spotted his friends at their usual table and his smile softened, settling more comfortably on his lips. He wasn't lonely. He had friends that cared about him, and that would be enough. It had to be.

"Blondie, what took you so long? Hawke's been here for hours!" Varric called out, hoisting a mug in his direction.

"Someone had to clean up after her. She's too important to get her hands dirty sweeping my floors!" Anders replied with a grin.

"Such a taskmaster," Hawke teased, smiling at him as he settled across from her.

Fenris was by her side, and Anders noted that the elf had no welcome for him. Anders's grin widened as he leaned across the table, winking. "You loved it and you know it."

Fenris's eyes narrowed at Anders. "If you wish to risk your life in that disreputable hovel you call a clinic, that is your right, but it is a dangerous place for Hawke."

"I believe that's Margaret's decision. I didn't ask her to come down to the clinic and help; I merely accepted her assistance without questioning her motives. Don't blame me if she needs more in her life."

Hawke frowned, looking from him to Fenris and back. "You both need to find something else to discuss," she said firmly.

"But you're the most interesting thing in this place," Anders protested, flashing a boyish smile.

"On that we do agree," Fenris said quietly.

Anders lifted his mug and grinned. Something tightly-coiled in him unwound and he felt relaxed in a way he hadn't for months. "Never thought I'd see that happen," he said with a cheeky grin.

"Nor I, Mage."

They raised their mugs, clinking them softly in a silent toast. Anders was sure the cordiality was as fleeting as the temporary silence in his head, but he accepted both for as long as they would last.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The slate grey clouds were turned silver by the slanting rain; rivulets of cold water flung down at them from an angry sky. Worry plucked with hungry fingers at the edges of Nathaniel's thoughts. He glanced at Anya, but the hood of her cloak hid her face. She looked neither right nor left as they rode through the storm. She appeared oblivious to the cold wind that pushed at their backs.

The horses splashed through large puddles, slipping as they hit patches of mud. They slowed, picking their way daintily around the quagmire, tossing their heads and prancing, nickering and snorting. If the rain didn't let up they'd have to stop and wait it out. The roads were becoming treacherous.

Nathaniel's eyes flicked to the other riders. Carver was miserable, his face bearing traces of their earlier fight and he was hunched over and swaying in the saddle. Gideon was no happier to be riding in the storm, his face a mask of wretchedness.

The storm finally passed, continuing to race southward. The clouds clung stubbornly to the sky, but the cold rain had turned to a drizzle and then finally abated. Even with the sudden cessation of the tempest, none of them spoke. They traveled on, their horses gaining confidence as the roads began to dry.

Still Anya didn't speak, but she pushed her hood back, and in the waning light he saw the large bruise on her temple, and that her face was pale and pinched. She glanced at him, a grim smile resting uneasily on her lips. He nudged his horse closer to her.

"Anya," he began but she waved him into silence.

"Let's just get to the inn. We'll talk then," she said briefly.

She was right, of course. Now that they were south of the Wending Wood, they were far too exposed for his liking. He nodded, scanning the horizon, looking for likely ambush sites, searching for the slightest hint of movement ahead of them.

Bold streaks of golden sunlight pushed through the clouds and he realized that they would barely reach the inn before daylight failed completely. He turned his watchful gaze to the west and saw the sun struggling to free itself from the iron grey sky. The thought of being on the road in the dark, without knowing who was responsible for the earlier attack, made his disquiet blossom into anxiety, twisting low in his gut.

Who had ordered the attack? Why did they want to capture Anya? As a bargaining tool? The thought chilled him. She was from a prestigious and powerful Orlesian family, as well as being a powerful figure within Ferelden in her own right. She was also being used as a pawn by both the Empress and the Wardens. Whoever was after her had already underestimated her, and that had worked to their benefit. Nathaniel wasn't naïve enough to believe that would happen again.

The last rays of the dying sun stretched across the darkening sky as they clattered into the courtyard of the Wayfarer's Inn, the cobblestones still slick from the recent rain. The soft yellow light streaming from the mullioned windows of the inn were a welcome sight.

Nathaniel pulled up and dismounted, reaching automatically for his bow and quiver. The stable-boy touched his cap and gave them all a cheeky grin.

"Here now, Master Nate, Arlessa Anya! It's fair late for ya to be arriving!" he shouted cheerfully, gathering reins and murmuring reassurances to the horses.

"Greetings, young Tamrick. How fares your family?" Anya greeted.

Nathaniel merely nodded his greeting, looking at the empty stalls, and then up at the loft where the shadows lay deep. He was about to mount the ladder and search those shadows when Anya shook her head, an imperceptible signal that most would have missed altogether.

"They be as fine as a spring day, Mistress. What brings yon Wardens here by?"

Anya smiled, the lines of stress around her mouth and eyes easing. "A trip to Denerim. Shall I bring something back for you?"

Bright red hair, the color of a winter sunrise, gleamed in the lamplight as the young stable-boy doffed his hat. "Ah, sure, that would be grand, Warden Commander. I've a hankering for a bit of those honeyed almonds," he replied, his grin growing.

"And so you shall have them," Anya assured him and then leaned forward, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper that Nathaniel had to strain to hear. "How many travelers are inside?"

"Four merchants, a couple as claims to be from Dragon's Peak, and there's naught else. Ma's that unhappy not to have more for supper. She's spitted a pig," the young boy replied.

"Thank you, young Tamrick. You'll make a fine guardsman one day. If that's still your wish?"

"Aye, Commander," the boy replied, his green eyes narrowed. "And I'm fair on to being of age," he added proudly.

Nathaniel held his tongue, though he wanted to tell the boy, who was barely thirteen, not to be in a rush to join the army. Like so many young people who'd survived the perils of the Blight and the attacks along the Pilgrim's Path, Tamrick thought the army was a place for heroic deeds. The boy had a gift with horses, a gentling spirit that would make him an excellent stable-master one day, given the right assistance.

"Nothing untoward?" Anya prodded, glancing around the stables.

"Nothing a'tall," the boy replied. "Last night'd be a different tale, howsoever."

"What do you mean?" Nathaniel asked quickly, frowning.

The boy's eyes widened and he wet his lips. Nathaniel realized his tone and manner were making the boy nervous and he tried to add a smile to soften his words but Anya shook her head.

"Gideon, would you and Carver take the gear in and arrange for rooms?"

The dark-eyed scout looked mutinous but even he knew the suggestion made in so silky a voice was a command, not a request. With a curt nod, he began to gather the saddlebags and gear. Carver assisted him with no complaint, and Anya waited until they were out of sight before she turned back to the young boy.

"Tell me about last night," she said quietly, giving Tamrick a reassuring smile.

"Well, thems that treat horseflesh so cruelly are naught but right bastards, if you'll pardon my saying so, Arlessa Anya. The bay's mouth was that damaged and he'd more'n a few welts. Fair fractious he was, poor old dobbin."

"How many of these _right bastards_ were there, Tam?" Anya asked.

"Six, all told. And big, ugly brutes they were. Da didn't sleep a wink last night."

"Were any of them familiar to you?" Nathaniel queried as he helped Tamrick unsaddle the horses.

"Nary a one, Master Nate. Heard them talking whilst I cleaned tables, though. Fair bit of squabbling they was doing amongst themselves, too."

"Squabbling?" he prodded, feeling his concern giving way to anger.

"Didn't seem like they was happy to be together, is all. Kept bickering about where'd they take their package, but I didn't see any package a'tall."

Anya glanced at him and Nathaniel raised a brow at her before asking, "Did you hear where they were planning on taking their package?"

"Aye, ser. They was arguing betwixt Kirkwall and Denerim."

Anya reached into her kit and extracted several silver coins, dropping them into Tamrick's hand. "Thank you, Tamrick."

"_Thank you_, Arlessa Anya. I'll be sure ta' give Nicodemus an extra brush," the young boy said with a grin.

"That was enlightening," Anya remarked as they walked from the stable to the inn.

Nathaniel put his hand under her elbow, guiding her around a large puddle. His mind was digesting the information that Tamrick had shared with them. Why would anyone want to take her to Kirkwall? Or Denerim? Given the dagger they'd found, he'd have guessed they'd have taken her to Orlais.

"So fierce and low, the warrior's brow, for one and all to see his woe," Anya murmured, a quote he'd heard before when he spent too much time frowning.

"Not woe, just a very reasonable amount of caution," Nathaniel corrected, opening the door to the inn.

"Truly? Your frown looks to take up permanent residence."

Nathaniel forced his tense muscles to relax, affixing a smile to his lips. "Does this please you?" he asked dryly.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The public room was redolent of roasting pig and the fragrant tang of baked apples and cinnamon. Underneath those smells, she caught a whiff of freshly-baked bread, and her stomach rumbled in anticipation. Aengus Mac Innes greeted her with a broad smile and waved her to a table.

"Will you have a pint, Warden Commander? I've just tapped a fresh keg of barley brew."

"Yes, thank you, Aengus."

The rotund innkeeper had the same shocking red hair that his son had, and blue eyes the color of the Waking Sea. She had met him the first time they'd come to the Wending Wood to find out who was attacking the trade caravans. He'd been trying to find the answer too as business had declined, and he was in danger of closing the inn for good. But it had been his father's inn before him and his grandfather's before that, and he was determined not to lose it, most especially not to darkspawn.

They'd found him in the Wending Wood, injured but not tainted. Anders had healed him, and Anya had assured the innkeeper that she would find and stop whoever was attacking the caravans. After that, she'd made it a habit to check on Aengus and his family regularly, and had come to appreciate them as the epitome of a hardworking Fereldan family.

His wife, Mab, came out to greet Anya moments later. The woman was as tall and thin as her husband was short and round. She greeted Anya with a bright smile and a plate of bread, drizzled with drippings from the roasting pig.

"Supper'll be soon, Arlessa Anya, but I know that Warden hunger," the woman said, placing the plate down and beckoning for Anya to sit. "Aengus, haven't you poured her pint yet? The poor woman looks fair on to starving."

She had nearly finished her mug of barley brew and bread when the others joined her. Mab and her daughters, Rayleigh and Catrione, served the meal on large platters. Mab waited, hands on hips, to make sure the Wardens were enjoying the fare, before she went back to the kitchen. The girls, giggling and eying Carver, pottered around the public room, trying to look busy. Carver was a study of contrasts, blushing, yet oddly cocky.

Calm nibbled at her earlier shock, determined to feast on it until all that was left was a sense of peace and a curiosity about the event. Anya pushed her plate away and glanced around the common room, as she had countless times since entering. She knew exactly where the exits were, who else was in the room, and what weapons each person carried. She was sure that both Nathaniel and Gideon were just as aware as she was. Carver, however, was hunched over his mug of ale, wearing a grimly determined scowl, one that had appeared once Rayleigh and Catrione had left the room.

"Why would the Orlesians attack you?" the bellicose young Warden asked, his voice louder than she would like.

"A question that won't be answered in the public dining room of an inn," she rebuked quietly. "I'm going to go upstairs. Stagger your departures and meet in my room in one hour. And Warden Carver, try to look as though you aren't angry at the world."

Carver's scowl deepened momentarily, before melting into a remarkably gloomy smile. She thought he was better with a glower, but she appreciated that he was trying, realizing that subtlety was something he had yet to learn. There would be time enough to teach him, Anya decided, as she stood and bid her fellow Wardens a pleasant night.

The stairs were problematic as her hip and leg ached from the fight with her assailants. She took them slowly, one at a time, gritting her teeth in frustration every step of the way. She longed for a quiet evening by a fire, book in hand, but the events of the day had to be discussed before they arrived in Denerim the following evening.

As she suspected he would be, Nathaniel was the first to tap lightly on her door, a whisper of bare knuckles on wood. She opened the door and was immediately swept into his arms, his lips moving hungrily along hers. He kicked the door shut and walked her backwards toward the fire. When she finally broke the kiss, she opened her eyes to meet his stern grey gaze.

"You just opened the door without a word. I could have been anyone," he admonished.

"Or any one of the three Wardens I'm traveling with," she responded, flashing a quick smile at him.

"Why won't you take this more seriously?"

Anya sighed, surprised by the tension in his voice, the underlying fear that coated his words. She placed her hand lightly on his cheek, offering an appropriately somber smile. Would he ever understand that she was not nearly as naïve as she had been a year ago?

"Nathaniel, I _am_ taking the attack seriously. I know that three of the merchants staying here are lightly armed and the fourth has a matched set of daggers. I know that the couple from Dragon's Peak have not left their room all evening because they are newly wedded. I know that Aengus has recently added new locks to these rooms and that my window's wooden shutters are latched and locked. So tell me what it is you think I'm not taking seriously?"

He had the grace to look faintly apologetic. "You could have been killed today."

Anya leaned up, pressing a light kiss on his lips and then rubbing her cheek against his stubble-clad jaw, finding comfort in the rough feel of it. He smiled, pulling her close. Soon both of her cheeks burned from his attentions. Reluctantly, she pulled away and spoke again.

"My death was never their intent. They wanted _you_ dead. They wanted _me_ for leverage, I suspect. The question is who hired the mercenaries? Was the dagger a warning? A hint? It's highly suspect that the assailants took such pains to wear plainly-made gear and carry ordinary weapons, yet one of them carelessly used a dagger I could easily identify. And they were not all that skilled. I would suspect they were sacrificed to deliver a message. The question is: what's the message?"

A soft tap at the door prevented Nathaniel from answering immediately. She admitted Carver. "You look flushed, Commander. You're not running a fever, are you?"

Anya touched her cheeks, trying not to smile. "No, I'm fine. Are you? That was a nasty cut on your back."

"I've had worse. Gideon stitched it up when we got up to our rooms."

Wincing, Anya motioned him to sit in one of the chairs she'd placed in front of the fire. He tried so hard to be an adult but there was an overgrown boy in him; easily offended, often boastful, but oddly insecure. She understood it was difficult to live in the shadow of an older sibling and knew, in time, he would flourish in the Ferelden Wardens.

"When we get to Denerim I'll have King Alistair's court healer look at it."

"Yes, Commander."

A few minutes of silence passed and then another stealthy knock at her door announced Gideon's arrival. Once they were all settled around the fireplace they took turns giving their impressions of the fight. All agreed that the mercenaries had been poorly equipped and inept. Carver frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"What is it, Carver?" Anya encouraged.

"The big one with the dagger? He smelled like the docks in Kirkwall. That fishy, saltwater and sweat smell."

Gideon chuckled. "You've just described every dockworker in every port city."

"No, there's a peculiar smell to the water in Kirkwall, from the foundry, I think. Coppery. I smelled that too," Carver argued.

Anya shivered, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the fire. The argument about where to deliver the package, and Carver's assertion that at least one of the men had been from Kirkwall told her where her next trip would have to be. The thought of returning to Kirkwall did not sit well with her. Nathaniel knew, she saw it in his carefully controlled expression.

"Now why would someone in Kirkwall want to kidnap me? And why would they want suspicion to fall on the most influential houses of Orlais?"

**~~~oOo~~~**

Shock froze her brain. She sat on the filthy floor, rocking her mother, unable to think. She couldn't cry, but the tears were there, locked behind her lids. Waiting. She was only vaguely aware of Aveline's strong arms lifting her from the floor. When they wanted to leave her mother in order to take Margaret home, she rebelled, slapping at the hands that tried to hold her back from tending to her mother.

Magic gathered like a coming storm, thick and pungent in the air. Maker, why had she been cursed with such an affliction? She wanted it gone, she wanted to open her veins and watch the magic pool on the floor with her blood, with her mother's blood. She wanted to be free of the terrible burden.

She clutched her mother close and began to sing softly. Her mother had sung that very song to her when she was a child, sick and in pain. Work-roughened hands had smoothed her damp curls away from her forehead and the words had comforted her.

Her companions were standing around her, uncertain what to do. She could feel their eyes, hear their whispers. But they didn't know. They didn't know and she couldn't tell them but, oh Maker, she wanted to warn them. Her voice drifted to a halt, the words forgotten.

"I don't know what arrangements need to be made," she whispered to nobody in particular.

"I'll take care of it, Hawke. Let Sebastian and Fenris take you home now," Aveline said in her strong, sure voice.

Margaret shook her head. Home? An empty mansion that had meant nothing to her, but everything to her mother? She felt her body shudder, and her hands began to shake. "I should fetch her cloak. She hated to go out of the house without her cloak."

They didn't know and she couldn't tell them that it was her fault, her words, that were responsible for her mother's death. Maybe they did know. Yes, they must. They knew she hadn't been able to find the killer in time, that she was to blame. Why didn't they say something? Why didn't they yell at her? Please, Maker, yell at me, she begged over and over, a silent chant beating in her thoughts like the wings of a frightened bird.

A hand rested on the top of her head, a light touch that offered comfort but she stiffened, moving away from it. "Come, Hawke, let us take you home," Fenris said quietly.

She looked up at him and then down at her mother. They'd had words about Fenris. About Anders. About…her thoughts drifted away. She felt herself lifted and strong arms supported her. Walking, thoughts eddying like the ocean in a storm, along streets she knew but couldn't remember.

She was surprised when Gamlen raced out of the house and put his arms around her. She stood silent and still, enduring his embrace. "I'm sorry, Uncle Gamlen. Mother isn't at home right now."

Bed. She was in bed and so cold. Maker, it was cold, and her magic was still gathering, flickering, whispering. The demons were there, waiting for her to succumb to their temptations, their offers. She blinked.

What was Anders doing in her bedroom? Her mother would be furious with her. No. No more Mother. No more Bethany. No more Carver. Broken promises to Father. Gone, gone, gone, to the bottom of the sea.

Anders was holding her hand. He would understand.

"Take my magic away," she implored. "It killed Mother."

Fingers, kind and soothing, stroked her cheek. She curled into the touch, seeking warmth against the terrible cold that permeated the room. A softly-sung lullaby that whispered against the pain, reached through the numbing cold.

Grief gnawed at her like a ravenous beast, threatening to tear into her with savage teeth. Grief waited in the shadows like the demons in the Fade. Just waiting for the shock to be eaten away so it could enter.

Grief. Hungering for her. She would have to feed the beast. She closed her eyes and slept.


	22. Lies Flow Sweetly

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for taking this mess and cleaning it up so well!_

**Lies Flowing Sweetly**

"_**Lies flow sweetly from honeyed tongues to merge in this sea of deceit."  
>Empress Celene's warning to Anya on the occasion of Anya's presentation at Court.<strong>_

Approaching the city in the late afternoon, Anya called a halt and stiffly dismounted. Nathaniel knew better than to offer his assistance, even though he could see that it caused her pain. She was pale and drawn, her usual smile replaced by a grimly determined twist of lips.

Rummaging in her saddlebag, she withdrew a tabard and quietly slipped it over her head, tying the blue and grey material in place. A pair of white, rampant griffons, clawing at the air between them, announced to all that she was the Warden Commander of Ferelden.

Nathaniel found his own tabard and slipped it over his head. The reason for the tabards went unspoken, but he knew. She wanted to remind the people of Denerim that Nathaniel Howe was a Grey Warden, and while Nathaniel understood her desire, he knew for some it would never be enough to erase the treachery and duplicity of his father's actions.

Riding through the gates of Denerim, Nathaniel forced himself to sit tall in his saddle, keeping his eyes front, and his expression neutral. There were many in the capital city that saw him as an extension of his depraved and disgraced father. It didn't seem to matter that the Crown, the Teyrn of Highever and the Warden Commander of Ferelden had all decorated him for bravery and meritorious service to the nation.

A handful of the nobles understood he had never been anything like his father, but others were all too ready to revisit the sins of the father on his son. There were those who still saw only the son of the man who had tortured innocents for sport. They saw the son of a man who had murdered one of the most beloved nobles in Ferelden, along with the man's entire family. They saw the spawn of the man who had kidnapped the queen. For those nobles, Nathaniel knew there was nothing he could do to prove he was not his father's son. All he could do was continue living by his own code of conduct.

Denerim was alive with the sounds of reconstruction. The smell of newly cut timber and freshly applied paint tickled at his nose. The ringing of hammers and men calling out instructions reverberated through the streets. He found it ironic that the boy who hadn't wanted to be king had ensured the broad streets leading from the city gates to the palace were the first to be rebuilt, the buildings along the road bright in their newness, promising that the city was open for business and signaling a new era.

It was a facade. The majority of the city, especially the alleyways and back streets, still wore the scars left by the siege. There were twisted and burned shells where homes had once been, and whole neighborhoods had disappeared, but, to someone new to Denerim, the city looked prosperous and welcoming. It was hailed by the visiting dignitaries as a model of Fereldan grit and determination. A lie, if a necessary one.

He glanced at Anya as they turned onto the broad cobblestoned street that led to the palace gates. She appeared almost serene as she rode, but he knew it was just a carefully constructed mask, a charade.

They'd stayed up late the previous night, discussing the ramifications of the attack. Carver and Gideon had left them before the realization of how the attackers had known where they would be, and when, had broken through her calm façade.

She'd sat by the fire, the sheen of unshed tears glazing her eyes, as she'd thought about the young messenger, an Amaranthine man with a family. No doubt he had been killed for his pouch full of messages, and they both knew he had probably been tortured as well.

She'd paced the room, concerned for Reginald, the messenger she'd sent to Highever. Whoever had been responsible for the attack on them was, no doubt, watching the Vigil.

"What of Sigrun and Sarhal? Will they have been attacked?" she'd worried, her pacing becoming more agitated.

Nathaniel had offered what little comfort he could, but they were both pragmatic enough to know there was nothing they could do except hope for the best, and ensure future messengers traveled with an attachment of the Silver Order at their side.

She had not allowed herself to cry while he was there, but when he'd knocked on her door in the morning, he'd noticed the tell-tale signs of tears. He'd cursed himself for not having stayed the night with her, having elected instead to spend the night in the shadows, standing watch. He could have done that just as well in her room, he knew, but he'd been unwilling to compromise her reputation, and he'd known if he stayed with her he would not have been vigilant. It would have been too easy for him to get caught up in his desire for her.

Before they'd departed, she had slipped a note into Aengus's hands. "Give this to the patrol. They should be here within the next day or two. I've ordered them to leave two soldiers here to keep an eye on things."

"You're that good to us, Arlessa," Aengus had said, slipping the note into a cavernous pocket of his greatcoat. "May the Maker watch over you."

She'd nodded and smiled, given Tamrick a quick salute and ridden out of the inn's courtyard without a backward glance.

Now, she sat astride her horse with the quiet dignity and grace that others associated with her noble blood, but he knew it was a mask she wore to hide her anger and guilt. He wanted to reassure her, but he held his tongue, instead pulling up to ride beside her.

The broad street, known as Embassy Row, was lined with estates, the homes of the ambassadors that came from every nation in Thedas. The banners and pennants whipped in the breeze, gaily-colored flags against a gaudy blue sky. As they rode past the Nevarran ambassador's home, Anya glanced up at the uppermost tower, and Nathaniel's eyes followed. A pennant, carrying the crest of the Pentaghast family, snapped sharply in the wind.

"I'll arrange a meeting with Micah Pentaghast for tomorrow evening. I'll want you to accompany me and then find an excuse to slip away," Anya murmured.

Nathaniel nodded but didn't speak. He planned on visiting the embassy alone first, that very night. There was little enough security, by the look of it, and he wanted to know the layout before their visit, not try and explore it while she occupied the ambassador.

King Alistair was in residence. The Theirin flag waved briskly from its pole atop the palace's crenellated tower. The guards at the palace gates gave confirmation that the messenger, Windym, had never reached the city. Anya said nothing, merely flicked her reins and moved forward, heading for the Grey Warden compound, built in the far north corner of the palace grounds.

The Grand Game was about to begin and Nathaniel hoped Anya was prepared for it. She was not, by nature, a deceitful person, yet she would need to be if she was going to get the king to help finance the construction of a small fort on the islands. Putting an end to the game being played against her by the Wardens and Orlais would require even more deceit. He glanced at her again to see that she was still wearing a serene smile.

Perhaps she was better at deceit than he had originally thought. That insight gave him almost as much discomfort as it did comfort. He found himself questioning how well he really knew her.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anders sat on the edge of Hawke's bed, watching the steady rise and all of her chest as she slept. She still clutched his hand to her cheek, even in repose. The sleep spell had worn off, but her body, still processing shock and grief, was in a natural state of slumber. He was relieved to see her body's defenses taking hold. He continued to hum softly, appreciating the warmth of her skin against his fingers.

He heard the soft click of the door opening, but he didn't turn to see who it was. It would be Fenris returning from the chantry where he'd gone to help Gamlen make arrangements for Leandra Hawke.

"You may leave, now," Fenris stated, his voice cold and hard.

Anders shook his head, continuing to hum softly. Nothing compelled him to obey the elf's demands. Hawke had sought _his_ comfort, not Fenris's, and he would stay until _she_ asked him to leave.

"I want you gone, Mage," the elf reiterated, moving around the bed to stand before him.

"This isn't about what you want, Fenris, it's about what Hawke wants. I think she's made that clear enough," Anders replied quietly, smiling.

A rush of triumph flowed into him, warming his blood. Fenris's eyes darted from Anders to Margaret, sleeping with her body curved against Anders as he sat beside her on the bed. The elf's shoulders bowed slightly and a look of defeat shadowed his eyes.

"Do not think I will leave you alone with her," the elf growled and pulled a chair close to the bed.

Anders carefully extracted his hand and rose from the bed, walking quietly to a small trunk tucked into a corner of the room. He opened it and pulled out a blanket before moving to take the only other chair in her bedroom. He dragged it closer to the bed, wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and sat, waiting.

Hours of silence gave way to the first hint of morning's approach. Anders let his eyes wander to the tall windows where the drapes gaped slightly, allowing thin ribbons of light in. He felt drained, but was unwilling to leave her side. She had reached for his hand, for his comfort, and he would not disappoint her.

Fenris hadn't slept either, choosing instead to glare at Anders most of the long night. He looked irritable and exhausted, ready to strike Anders down with little provocation.

"You really ought to get some sleep, you know. She's not likely to wake up today," Anders finally said.

"Do you truly believe I would leave her alone with an abomination after what she witnessed? You're an even bigger fool than I had thought," the elf replied scornfully.

Anger jumped to life, snapping along already strained nerves. "I am _not_ an abomination, I'm a healer. Have you _ever_, even once, seen me hurt Hawke?"

Even muted, Fenris's voice reflected anger and disdain. "Because you have yet to do so does not mean you will not."

"You arrogant…" Anders began, leaping to his feet. Fenris quickly rose and moved in his direction, fists clenched and lyrium tattoos glowing.

"Enough! Hawke doesn't need to wake up to the sound of you two arguing. Get out!" Aveline commanded in a low, harsh voice as she entered the room. She was still in her heavy plate and her face was so pale that her freckles stood out in stark relief.

Anders turned to her, a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. "I thought Fenris looked exhausted, but you…you look terrible, Aveline."

Rather than return his smile, Aveline continued to stand, feet apart and arms folded, waiting for her orders to be obeyed. Fenris wore a militant expression, eyes narrowed and mouth grim. Anders suspected he was about to refuse to leave. That wouldn't do.

"I'll be downstairs in my room if there's any change, Aveline. Just send Sandal for me."

Silence greeted his remark, and he glanced surreptitiously at Fenris. "Explain yourself," the elf demanded, his voice a low hum of fury.

"I don't have to explain anything to you, Fenris," Anders replied, slipping past Aveline and out of the room.

He was halfway down the stairs when Fenris grabbed his arm. "You _will _explain yourself," he reiterated.

Anders's smile broadened and he shook off the hand that tried to hold him in place. "If Hawke didn't see fit to explain my presence here, I won't either. But maybe, just maybe, she enjoys having me near her. She openly helps in the clinic, and she begged me to move in here. She isn't ashamed to have _me_ at her side."

Watching the elf closely, he saw the second his words penetrated Fenris's walls. The elf's features twisted, eyes narrowing against the hurt and shock, hands visibly shaking as he pulled away from Anders and hurried down the stairs to disappear into the entryway.

Anders listened intently and heard the sound of a door being firmly shut.

_**Did I not tell you he was easily disposed of?**_

Victory sang sweetly in his veins as he went to his room, a smile flirting with his lips.

**~~~oOo~~~**

_Her gown was a pale ivory silk, full-skirted with a boned stomacher, and a plain gold girdle wound three times around her waist as was proper, signifying that she was newly arrived at court and still pure. Her hair, pulled into a high mass of curls, was adorned with a plain gold tiara and two white egret feathers that curled down, tickling her cheek. She slipped her fingers into her white kid gloves, pulling them up just past her elbows._

"_Perfection, my pet," her mother announced proudly._

_Anya rolled her eyes. "I would rather be sparring," she said darkly. "All this frippery is a waste of time."_

"_You will behave yourself tonight, Anya. Your presentation at court secures your future and I'll not have you ruin it with your ridiculous notion of becoming a warrior."_

_The affair, held in the grand ballroom under the watchful gaze of Dowager Lady Mantillon and Her Imperial Highness, Celene, was the event of the season. All the young women were presented and their futures set, determined by the empress's approval or, Maker forbid, her disapproval. _

_Anya entered the ballroom on the arm of her father, resplendent in dark blue satin and velvet. She kept her eyes demurely fastened on the floor in front of her, as was custom. A young woman was not allowed to meet the eyes of the nobles until the empress had given her permission. When she was presented to Empress Celene, a woman she had known her entire life, she was treated to a sly smile. She swept into a deep curtsy and felt a gentle hand lifting her. _

"_Cousin Anya, your dress is refreshingly plain against all the peacocks and dandies. A wise choice, as all eyes are drawn to your beauty. You've no need for artifice. Well done."_

"_Your Imperial Highness is too kind," Anya replied, feeling absurdly nervous._

"_Come, give your cousin a kiss, my dear."_

_Anya leaned forward and let her lips graze Celene's right cheek and then the left. Celene's hands were gentle but firm on her arms, reassuring._

"_Gaze upon the vultures, Anya, and trust none, for lies flow sweetly from honeyed tongues to merge in this sea of deceit. Now, go and request your dance with the dowager, Lady Mantillon, and remember what I have said."_

"_Yes, Empress Celene."_

_Anya gazed at the people gathered in the ballroom, terrified of the subterfuge and deceit that were a natural part of court life. She clasped her hands in front of her and stood, head high, her emotions roiling, but her smile serene, just as she had been taught…_

"Anya, what brings you to Denerim?" King Alistair asked, smiling at her as she sketched an abbreviated curtsy. "Not that I don't enjoy your company," he added hastily, his smile becoming a boyish grin.

Anya tilted her head and returned his grin. "I doubt you'll enjoy my company once I've told you the reason for my visit, Your Majesty."

Alistair's grin faltered and flickered. He was still learning how to control his tendency to show every emotion he felt, even after two years as the king, but she saw in his expression a sudden unease.

"Well, that sounds ominous, doesn't it, Teagan?" he asked his chancellor.

Teagan stepped forward, his smile warm and friendly, his blue eyes calm. "Shall we go into your private study, Alistair?"

"Right, the private study. I was just about to suggest that. Grendel, have some food and wine sent in, will you?"

"As you wish, Your Majesty," a young man said with a bow and quickly departed.

"Warden Howe, good to see you," the king greeted belatedly and there was a marked coolness in his voice.

Anya felt a brief flare of anger, masked quickly, as they made their way to the king's private study. She shot a glance at Nathaniel, who wore a stoic expression, but she saw how stiffly he held himself and knew he was offended by Alistair's rudeness. She wanted to reach out a hand to him, to reconnect with him, but she refrained, knowing it would embarrass him.

As soon as the door was shut, he sat down behind his desk and waved for the others to be seated as well.

"I'm surprised you didn't send word of your visit," Alistair began, his hands resting lightly on his desk.

"It wasn't because I didn't try, Your Majesty –"

"Alistair. How many times do I have to remind you that it's Alistair?"

Another brief flare of anger tickled and was gone, leaving impatience in its wake. She took a deep breath and began again. "Alistair, I sent a messenger two days before I left Vigil's Keep. That he didn't arrive can only mean that he's dead and the message intercepted."

"That assumption seems a bit premature, Anya, unless the message had something to do with your recent trip abroad?" Teagan said quietly, his tone faintly accusatory.

She glanced at Alistair's advisor, who smiled expectantly, waiting for her to explain the reason for her visit. He was a noble who had polished and perfected the art of politics, and while she appreciated his sound advice to the king, she didn't necessarily trust him.

"My recent trip abroad was to discuss several issues, some of which pertain to the Wardens, and are of no importance to the Crown," she replied, her voice carefully devoid of emotion.

"That's enough, both of you," Alistair snapped, surprising Anya. "Yes, yes. Alistair's growing a backbone. Now, what's going on, Anya?" the king asked, flashing his trademark grin.

Without preamble, Anya spoke, her voice clipped. "Are you aware that Etienne Villiers and Anora Mac Tir are plotting to overthrow Empress Celene? That they plan to invade Ferelden and place Anora on the throne as regent?"

The news came as a surprise to both Alistair and Teagan. As adept as he was at hiding behind his charming smile, Teagan's surprise flashed in his expression before disappearing. "How do you come by such information?" he asked, his words riding over Alistair's startled response.

"My brother, Raoul, captain of her guard, told me that Etienne is planning a _coup d'etat_."

"Why would she do that? She's as Fereldan as a mabari," Alistair blurted out, sounding confused and disbelieving.

A tap at the door warned them all into silence as trays of refreshments were brought in by liveried servants. No-one spoke until the servants had departed and then Anya spoke first.

"I asked that very question, Alistair, and my brother offered compelling reasons why she would work to overthrow you as king."

"Maker's breath, I can't believe she would sell out the country her father spent a lifetime securing," Teagan said, uncharacteristically flustered by the news.

"Would she feel loyalty to a country whose people so quickly turned their backs on her beloved father? Would she even care about her former countrymen if it meant she could avenge her father's death by dethroning the man who humiliated him and murdered him before her very eyes?" Anya asked, fighting to keep her impatience and anger at bay. "You brought this on yourself, Alistair, by allowing her to go into exile."

"I knew I should have kept her locked up in a tower here," Alistair muttered darkly. "And I need something stronger than tea after that heartwarming piece of news."

"As do I, but I suggest we wait until we've discussed the other reason for Anya's visit," Teagan agreed, turning his gaze back to Anya.

"There is no other reason," Anya lied smoothly, reaching with a steady hand for her teacup.

"But the time to act, to shore up the defenses of Ferelden, is now. As with the last invasion, I have learned that Etienne is outfitting his cargo ships for war and is slowly placing them in strategic ports outside of Orlais. He will, once he has secured the throne, send his fleet of ships into port at Amaranthine. To that end, I suggest you begin construction of watchtowers and a fortress on Brandel's Reach. A sizable presence there will, at the very least, slow an invasion force down long enough to rouse the army," she concluded, lowering her eyes to her teacup. She glanced through lowered lashes at Nathaniel, who sat quietly, his expression neutral.

"Wow. Just…wow. How long do you think we have before this Etienne is successful?"

Anya felt a chuckle pulled from her at his woeful expression. "I think if we are clever and act decisively, there will be no _coup d'etat_, Alistair. Celene assures me that she has no wish for war between Orlais and Ferelden. She will do everything she can to prevent it. However, you must prepare the country for that eventuality."

"Maker's breath," he mumbled, putting his head in his hands. "Why didn't I just stay with the Wardens?"

Anya held her tongue, but she wanted to tell him that being a Warden was no longer about just fighting darkspawn, that there were other, darker enemies to fight as well, thanks, in part, to his gift of the arling to the Wardens. He had allowed himself to be used as an instrument of change within the Order.

"There is never an easy path, when lies flow so sweetly from those in power," she remarked softly, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

The remainder of their visit was spent recounting their trip to Denerim, including the attack upon them, as well as discussing the plans for a fortress on the island and her need for assistance.

"I will match any funds the Crown is able to divert to this project, and I have sent word to Fergus Cousland regarding this matter. I can only hope that Reginald made it to Highever alive." Anya paused and gave Alistair a sad smile, leaning forward and placing her hands on the table in a gesture of helplessness.

"I have also learned, and I believe it is tied into Etienne's plot, that ships bearing the Amaranthine flags are being attacked in the Waking Sea. It would be very much in keeping with his sense of humor to steal our goods, take our ships, and use them against us. As the men who attacked us on Pilgrim's Path were from Kirkwall, I intend to visit the city in the hope of ending such attacks. The arling cannot afford the loss of trade goods and ships if we are ever to recover from the Blight."

"The trip has nothing to do with Anders having relocated to Kirkwall?" Alistair asked, surprising Anya with his forthright query.

"I had no idea he was there, Alistair. I was in Kirkwall to pick up a Warden and visit with my brothers there, and no mention of his being there was made," Anya replied, hoping she had feigned the right amount of shock and innocence. She allowed herself a delicate shiver. "I'm glad I didn't know about it at the time, but now that I know he's there, I'll be sure to avoid him."

Alistair met her eyes, searching for the truth and Anya fought to keep her face schooled and to meet his eyes, for all that her own wanted to look away. After several long moments, he blinked and nodded, seemingly satisfied.

"Let Empress Celene know that Lord Cornelius is to be trusted and any further messages can be delivered through our embassy in Val Royeaux," he finally said, his voice an unmistakable dismissal.

"I will do so, Alistair, but I am her most trusted cousin and she will continue to use me as her messenger," Anya replied quietly but firmly.

"So she trusts only you? Hmmm, and who should I trust, do you think?" Alistair asked, his earnest expression pulling at Anya's heart and making guilt tickle at the edges of her conscience.

"She is foolish to trust me, as any monarch is foolish to trust in those they can't keep close," Anya replied sincerely, glancing at Teagan with a smile. "You are lucky to have one such as Teagan who is so close," she added and stood.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I find the journey has tired me more than I realized."

She stood and limped to the door, turning back to stare at Alistair. He was so young and naïve. He had grown in the time she'd known him, seemed more aware of the politics necessary to govern, but he was still too trusting and still unable to hide his emotions.

"I will do everything within my power to aid the Crown in this matter, Alistair. Trust that, if you trust nothing else," she vowed.

As she walked to the compound beside Nathaniel, she couldn't be sure in her own mind if her vow had been yet another lie flowing from a honeyed tongue or if it was a truth that she had yet to admit to herself.

"You didn't tell Alistair that Celene wants him to petition the Divine for Anora's return to Ferelden," Nathaniel said, his tone a veiled accusation.

"I learned long ago that information imparted in small does is a wiser course of action than flooding a person with every small detail at once. Teagan is intelligent and clever; it won't surprise me if he advises Alistair to do that very thing. The more they think of on their own, the better for all concerned," she replied gravely.

He stopped, his arm pulling on hers to do the same. "Promise me you won't ever lie to _me_, Anya," he commanded, his gaze probing.

Sadness pushed into her at his need for reassurance, though she could hardly blame him for needing it after witnessing her performance. She raised her hand to his cheek and her fingers grazed along his cheekbone with tender longing.

"I wish you didn't feel the need to ask that of me, but I can understand why you would. I give you my word, Nathaniel. You will always have my honesty," she avowed.

She hoped she would not have to break that promise.


	23. The Hinges of Destiny

**A/N:**_Thank you, Lisa, for your wonderful beta skills and suggestions.  
>My continued thanks to all who are reading, reviewing and lurking.<em>

**The Hinges of Destiny****

The last echo of the eleventh bell had faded into silence and Denerim lay quiet, with the exception of the taverns and whorehouses that hid in the alleyways off the market square. Nathaniel watched in silence as Anya prepared for her trip to the Copper Fox. He had already voiced his concern, and she had reassured him that she would take Gideon and Carver with her. When she had asked him if he would accompany them as well, he had felt a brief stinging regret at the lie that formed so easily. "Varel gave me the latest census reports to go over," he'd claimed. "I should see to them while I have the time."

She was going to the disreputable tavern district in search of Aden, the Denerim leader of the Mages' Collective, in the hope of recruiting another mage. He knew she would be safe enough with the other men, and she had ably demonstrated that she could protect herself, but he felt unease stirring in his belly.

She slipped a plain grey woolen dress over her head and turned her back to him, moving her hair out of the way. "I'm afraid you'll have to play lady's maid," she teased.

He bent his head, kissing the cool soft skin between her shoulders before lacing the gown. He had asked her never to lie to him and yet he had done that very thing. Why? She might not like the idea of his infiltrating the Nevarran Embassy ahead of their meeting, but she would understand the necessity. He frowned as he tied the laces securely and stepped back. His basic instinct, the primitive need in him to protect her, had caused the lie to slip effortlessly from him and he felt remorse tickle at his conscience.

She turned to him, her smile as gentle as a caress. "Wherever it is you're going tonight, and, whatever it is you are planning, be careful, dear heart," she whispered before kissing him softly.

A low groan escaped him as his hold on her tightened. Maker, he was an idiot. How could he expect her to be honest with him when she saw right through his ruse? He rested his forehead against hers, breathing in her scent. He really should just tell her his plans or cancel them, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"You, as well," he whispered gruffly, before stepping away again.

She reached for a leather pouch and attached it to her embroidered girdle. Rummaging through her pack, she pulled out a small dagger and slipped it into the pouch. Lastly, she took a vellum, folded neatly and sealed with her Grey Warden signet. With a twist of her lips, she glanced at him. "There's no reason not to be prepared," she explained wryly, and then pulled on her cloak.

"I expect to be back in an hour. Hopefully, you'll be done with your _reports _by then, as well."

As soon as the others were gone, he changed into his black leathers, and set about using the cold ashes in the fireplace to darken his buckles. Opening his lock-pick kit, he chose a half-diamond pick, a ball pick and his torsion wrench, hiding them in his braids. If he couldn't open the locks with those instruments, he had no business even trying. Before leaving, he slipped his flask into a pocket and then eased himself out of a window at the back of the compound to merge with the shadows.

Alleys gave way to the walled gardens behind Embassy Row. In minutes he had found the Nevarran Embassy and he waited for the city guards to pass by, so close he could smell the faint aroma of onions and ale on one of the men. With a whisper of leather, he scaled the wall and crouched atop it, listening for any sounds made by the soldiers on patrol. His heart beat with a steady rhythm, his mind calm. Hearing nothing suspicious, he dropped lightly to the ground and once more slipped into the shadows.

The cellar door was picked with very little effort and he opened it slowly, wishing he'd thought to bring some lard for any squeaky hinges, but the Nevarrans apparently kept the estate in good repair as the door opened silently. He stood in the dark room, allowing his eyes to acclimate to the darkness, before creeping silently up the stairs to the main level, wary of creaking boards.

Soft voices came from the direction of the kitchens and he paused, leaning into the shadows and listening.

"What's the cook planning for that Orlesian bitch'll be here tomorrow night?" a man growled.

Nathaniel felt a spark of anger at his words, his hands clenching into fists. He made a determined effort to uncurl his fingers and take a steadying breath. There would always be those who saw her as an Orlesian, but now was not the time to correct the ignorant ass.

"Watch your tongue, Watley! That woman saved my brother and his family from the darkspawn," a woman hissed in reply. "She's the Warden Commander," she added as if that explained Anya's visit.

"Still Orlesian, ain't she? Can't trust any of 'em," the man replied and from the bitterness in his voice, Nathaniel guessed that he'd survived the Orlesian occupation.

"Lord Micah won't put up with that guff, Watley," another man interjected.

Nathaniel heard chair legs scraping the floor and then silence. He waited patiently in the shadows as he heard three sets of footsteps fading into nothingness. Quiet moments passed before he decided to continue on.

As he slowly progressed through the first floor, he counted the number of steps between rooms and then, upon entering each room, quickly assessed the layout and contents, committing them to memory, before searching the next room. He encountered his first locked door just off the salon. Kneeling, he removed his picks and wrench and quickly worked the lock.

His heart fluttered briefly as he heard the squeak of floorboards directly above him. He paused, listening, and then heard muffled steps. _Two sets, probably guards_. He inserted his ball pick, twisted it gently to the right and was rewarded with the soft _snick_ of the lock springing. He eased the door open and stepped inside the room before quietly shutting the door behind him.

He'd found an office and he made his way carefully to the desk. To his surprise, the drawers were not locked, and he slowly opened first one and then another. Without any light, it was impossible to tell what the papers were, but he had found what he would need to find much more quickly the following night.

A noise filtered into his awareness. He cocked his head, listening intently, and heard the unmistakable clatter of metal boots striking the floor. The guards were close by and he dropped to the floor, wedging himself under the desk.

When the sound faded, he crawled out and stood up, wondering if he dared light a lamp to see just what papers were important enough to keep behind a locked door. A louder thump from upstairs and more muffled footsteps answered his question, and he made his way silently to the door. The footsteps receded and he slipped out of the room, removed his picks and relocked the door, before going back the way he had come.

He was nearly at the top of the wall when he felt a vise clamp around his ankle, pulling him back down. His face scraped along the stone wall and he felt the hot sting of abraded skin. With a grunt of pain and surprise, Nathaniel landed in a heap, immediately rolling away from his assailant and rising to his feet in one fluid movement. He struck out, hitting the dark shape with a quick jab in the hope of preventing the guard from calling out. His fist connected with flesh and the figure staggered back with a startled yelp, but not before Nathaniel felt steel piercing through his leathers to prick his skin.

Without hesitation, Nathaniel batted the sword away, and lunged at the man, his hands gripping the man's neck, thumbs pressing into the hollow of the man's throat. He tightened his grip and his adversary slumped down, pulling Nathaniel to the ground, but Nathaniel was already releasing his burden and scrambling up the wall. He dropped to the other side and wound the shadows around him like a cloak.

His side stung where the tip of the sword had broken flesh and he could feel the steady trickle of blood seeping from the wound to track down his clammy skin. His left cheek and his chin were oozing. He had to return to the compound quickly before he left a bloody trail from the back wall of the Nevarran embassy's gardens right to the Grey Warden compound. He pressed his fingertips to the weeping wound and continued on.

He was nearing the palace walls when the night exploded with the sound of an alarm being shouted and the ringing of armored men running on the cobblestoned streets. He shrank deeper into the shadows, listening. The guards were moving in his direction and Nathaniel felt his first stab of fear. Fleeting regret for his decision to scout out the embassy ahead of the meeting touched him and was gone. There was no time for regrets.

"Oy! What's the ruckus?" a deep voice bawled, so close that Nathaniel instinctively recoiled, his breath held as sweat beaded his forehead.

"Just one of them poncey foreigners. Serves 'em bloody well right," came the reply.

"Andraste's tits! Get the King's Guard doubled up," the deeper voice ordered.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Margaret moaned and rolled over, her limbs protesting. She opened her eyes, expecting daylight to be sifting through the heavy drapes but the room was dark, except for a candle burning low, and the soft glow of embers in the fireplace. She blinked and struggled to sit up.

"It's all right, Hawke," Aveline said, her voice low and firm; a reassuring balm. "Don't try to move too quickly."

Confused, Margaret rubbed at her eyes and the shook her head, trying to dispel the lethargy that seemed to have settled in both mind and body. "What are you doing here, Aveline?"

Her voice was rusty and raw, her throat protesting; her thoughts were blurred and unfocused. Something was wrong, she could sense it, knew that she should know, but whatever memory would explain the unease kept slipping from her grasp. And then it rushed into her, penetrating her confusion like a flame illuminating darkness.

Her mother was gone because Hawke had been too slow, too caught up in her own selfish pursuits. Gone in the most heinous way imaginable. She rubbed at the hot tears that crowded into her eyes and her blossoming sorrow flared into anger as she stared at Captain Aveline of the Kirkwall City Guard.

Betrayer! The word edged along her thoughts like a stiletto's cold steel. Aveline was supposed to protect the citizens of Kirkwall, but she had failed in her duty, and now Leandra Hawke was dead. Anger turned to fury.

"You! You are the captain of your precious city guard and you did nothing to save her!" Margaret cried out, her rage fisting her hands and firing her blood. Magic flickered awake, awaiting a command.

Aveline's soft look of concern hardened and a flash of guilt and hurt surfaced before being overwhelmed by stone and steel. "Blame me if it helps you, Hawke," the woman said quietly. "But blame won't bring Leandra back any more than it brought Wesley back," she finished evenly.

Margaret's thoughts pitched and swayed, tipping precariously like a ship tossed in a storm. Guilt and grief flowed into her, as cold and capricious as the sea. Aveline was right and the reasoning part of her mind told her that, told her to hang on to Aveline's strength, but she shoved the thought away, just as her words pushed Aveline from her.

"Go away," she commanded coldly.

The tall, ginger-haired woman seemed ready to ignore the command but after a penetrating stare, she nodded. "You can isolate yourself for the moment, Hawke, but I won't desert you. Not now, not ever," Aveline asserted firmly.

Margaret turned away from the older woman, a clear dismissal. Her mind continued to roil and seethe as she sat, listening to the profound silence of a house in mourning, unable to bring herself to move. The weight of failure was suffocating her, her breath coming in great gasps.

Every decision she had made since her father's death had led her to this moment, this single bitter moment. She alone was responsible for the destiny she found herself living in. Bethany was gone because she, Margaret Amell, the self-appointed leader who knew better than others, had chosen to go south, right into the arms of an ogre. Carver was gone because she had decided, over the protests of her mother, that she needed him on the expedition. Maker, she had made so many wrong decisions. And now her mother was gone because she hadn't taken Emeric's fears seriously enough.

She sat on the edge of her bed, emotions eddying, knowing decisions had to be made about her mother, the estate, Gamlen. People were relying on her, and yet, the pull of Ferelden, of being near Carver again, was momentarily overwhelming.

Anya had claimed she would always be welcome at Vigil's Keep. Perhaps she and Fenris could go there, find a life away from the turmoil of Kirkwall. She closed her eyes, imagining a quiet life without the stain of regret darkening everything. Would he go with her? She wasn't sure she could leave him behind. Would Carver accept her presence at the keep or would his condemnation of her for their mother's death drive her away?

Before she could even think about her future, she would have to make the arrangements for her mother's memorial service. Her mind stuttered at the thought. She had no idea how to arrange such a thing. Perhaps if she spoke to Sebastian? She did know that she would not allow her mother to be placed on a funeral pyre wearing the wedding gown of a long dead woman. Her skin seemed to shrink and pull at her, overheated and stretched too tightly over her bones. She latched onto the one thing she felt capable of doing.

Tears flowed, unheeded, as she moved on unwilling legs to her mother's room. She tapped on the door and then gave a broken laugh. There would be no more gently called invitations to join her mother for tea and a chat in the small sitting room. No more mother-daughter talks of life in Lothering or what the future might have in store for them.

Gone by her own ill-made decisions; taken away by the capricious will of some creature that was more monster than man. Margaret felt the twist of a knife in her. Leandra Amell Hawke was gone because she had shoved her mother away in a fit of pride and pique.

The journal, lying open on the gilt-trimmed desk, was an invitation, as if her mother was beckoning to her and Margaret stared blankly at the curving script, so achingly familiar. She blinked, rubbing at her eyes with the backs of her hands, commanding her tears to leave, just as she had commanded Aveline….

_Oh Malcolm, I've made such a muddle of everything. I should never have suggested we come back here. It only serves to remind me how much I miss you, and how poorly I have chosen since your death._

_I honestly thought by coming here I would be able to show all my friends how right I was to choose you over de Launcet. My pride. Maker, my pride. _

_She's so like you, Malcolm. She has your humor and wit and your sharp tongue and your need to save everyone. I look at her and know that choosing you was the only right choice I ever made. _

_Perhaps, in time, I can set things to rights…_

Margaret closed the journal and sat down in the delicate, gilt-edged chair that Leandra had rejoiced over when they'd found it in the attic. Lowering her head onto the cool wood of the desk, she realized she had no choice at all. She would have to stay in Kirkwall and set things right. Somehow. She owed her mother that much.

Her sobs broke over her, a seiche of grief and regret.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The Copper Fox was like any other seedy tavern, the air thick with raucous laughter and the odor of unwashed bodies. Anya lowered the hood of her cloak and looked around for a man matching the description Sarhal had given her. Carver and Gideon pushed through the crowd and she followed in their wake.

"How's about you an' me going off to get better acquainted?" a voice thick and slurred by ale asked, so close she could feel his fetid breath on her cheek.

"How about my fist and your face get better acquainted?" Carver asked, rising to his full height. His hand reached out but the drunken libertine had already melted back into the crowd of people gathered in the small room.

Anya snickered, glancing at her recruit with a smile. "Nicely done, but no fighting. The last thing we need is a brawl," she commented, her voice lost in the din.

"Last thing we need is some lecherous drunk manhandling one of us," Gideon corrected, weaving through the crowd.

They found a table, tucked into a dark corner and a serving girl arrived before Anya could untie her cloak. "What'll be, handsome?" she asked, directing her question at Carver, whose cheeks turned bright pink and whose tongue seemed to have become lost.

"A round of ale, but not that watered down version old Pullham serves the drunks," Gideon ordered.

Anya scanned the crowded taproom. They were attracting a fair amount of attention, more than she would like, and she found herself being scrutinized by a number of patrons. One man, of medium height and with a wiry build, staggered up to their table. His amber colored eyes were hooded and he gave her a saucy wink.

"Well, well, well. I wouldn't mind having a piece. What's your price?" he asked, bending down to whisper against her ear. "Sarhal said you'd be here," he continued in a whisper. "I'm Aden. Now slap me, hard enough to look real, and meet me out back in ten minutes."

Anya leaned back, glaring at the man and raised her hand, striking him across his ruddy cheek. His head snapped back and his eyes smarted, but he laughed and stepped back.

"No need to get your knickers in a twist," he grumbled, rubbing his cheek.

Vaguely aware of the cessation of noise, Anya gave him a cold stare. "Touch me again, little man, and _you'll_ have something twisted as well," she replied haughtily.

Laughter and lewd comments once again filled the air and she watched as the man stumbled out of the tavern, slamming the door behind him. How, in the Maker's name, had Sarhal managed to alert Aden before she'd left for the Tower?

"You're very popular," Carver commented, oblivious to the byplay that had just occurred.

Their mugs arrived before she could say anything, and, after Anya had paid for the drinks, she turned to her companions. "Drink up. We've got a date in ten minutes," she commented quietly, hoisting her mug.

She let her eyes once again peruse the crowd, unsure what she was looking for but it was a habit of long standing. Her eyes kept returning to a tall, thin man, with a thatch of dark blonde hair, who had his back to her. There was something familiar about him, but it wasn't until he turned slightly that she recognized him.

"Gideon," she whispered, trying to keep her tone and expression neutral, though her heart was hammering. "Is that man in the corner table across from us as familiar to you as he is to me?"

"Andraste's tits," Gideon hissed. "It's Windym or I'm a whoreson."

Carver startled and made to rise, but Anya reached out a hand, plastering a smile on her face. "Oh don't be in such a rush, Car," she said merrily. "Let me finish this first," she added.

Carver frowned slightly and then seemed to catch on, sinking back into his chair and taking a long pull from his mug. "All right, but hurry, wench," he said, playing his part with more relish than finesse.

"Gideon, when we leave I want you to stay here and keep an eye on him, follow him. Be careful, though. I don't want him to know you're there and I don't want you caught by whoever he might be reporting to. It's apparent that he's the pay of someone and I would know who."

"I'll meet you back at the compound. You be careful too, Annie."

Anya stood, tossing her head. "Maybe next time," she told Gideon, just loud enough to be heard by those nearest their table. With that, she looped her arm through Carver's and they made their way out of the Copper Fox.

Aden was waiting for them, a young man beside him. He was short and slender, with a mop of dark curls and bright blue eyes. "This is Flynne. He's a battlemage, but well trained in healing."

Anya studied Flynne with a practiced eye. Even in the low light of a flickering torch, he looked intelligent and composed, but sorrowful…a man who had lost something dear, and was in search of a new life. She had seen that look before on recruits, and often they didn't fare well during the Joining, but there was strength in his direct gaze.

"Are you aware that once you join the Wardens, there is no turning back?" she asked, her voice sharp.

"I am."

"Have you family?" she queried.

"Not any longer," he replied quietly.

"You do now," she said, her decision made. She clasped his hand and shook it. "Be at the North Gate early in the morning in two day's time. Do you ride?"

"I'll not win any contests, but I can sit a horse well enough."

Anya searched her pouch and withdrew the sealed vellum. "This guarantees safe passage should anyone give you trouble. It states you are under the auspices of the Grey Wardens."

The young mage took the vellum and slipped it into a pocket. "Thank you, Commander," he said and, with a slight bow, he became lost in the shadows.

She turned to Aden. "I apologize for hitting you so hard earlier."

The man laughed good-naturedly. "It's not as if I've never been slapped before."

"How did Sarhal let you know I was coming?"

Aden shrugged. "We all have our secrets, don't we, Commander?" he asked enigmatically.

"True enough," she replied ruefully. "Now, if there are no other recruits, I'll be on my way."

Aden sketched a bow and then grinned. "I'll be in touch if I find any more willing victims, but I'll only send those I think can survive." His grin widened at her look of surprise. "Duncan was a friend. He recruited three mages from the collective but only one ever saw action. I assume the Joining is as risky as a Harrowing."

With that, he disappeared into the night and she turned to Carver. "Time we were on our way, as well."

They walked as briskly as her limp allowed, Carver adjusting his stride to match hers. She was silent, her mind sifting through the events of the evening. Who had paid Windym to spy? Did his family know, or was his family just a part of his deception? She made a mental note to visit the family upon her return.

As they walked the back alleys, she became aware of a great many soldiers in the area. Her heart slammed into her chest as she thought of Nathaniel, and her steps faltered before continuing at a heightened pace. Maker, keep him safe, she prayed silently. She cursed her limp as she redoubled her speed, hopping slightly. Please let him be at the compound, she continued her prayer.

"Looks like something's happening," Carver commented, his hand going to his sword.

They were just about to turn onto the main avenue when she felt the faintest tug in her blood.

"Wait," she hissed at Carver. A Warden was nearby; she could feel the tickling sensation of her blood responding to the taint.

She turned back, letting the prickling dread in her blood guide her. She found Nathaniel, tucked into the shadows near the high walls of the palace grounds. He was slumped on the ground, his breathing shallow.

"Nathaniel," she whispered, kneeling beside him, fear turning her voice hoarse. She put a hand on his cheek, and felt him stir. His skin was cold and clammy.

"Nathaniel, where are you hurt?" she asked urgently, her heart continuing its staccato beat in her chest.

"Anya?" he asked in a reedy voice.

"Yes. Where are you hurt?"

"Blade. Poison," Nathaniel mumbled.

Blade? Maker's mercy, what blade? Where had he been? And he reeked of cheap whiskey. Had he been out drinking? But even as myriad questions beat in her brain, her training took over. "Carver, help me get him to his feet."

Nathaniel tried to help them but swayed unsteadily on his feet. She wrapped an arm around his waist and Carver placed a strong arm around Nathaniel's shoulder. "Maker, mate, you smell like a taproom floor," Carver grunted as they started forward.

"Tried to flush the wound," Nathaniel ground out in explanation, which explained nothing.

They staggered as they tried to adjust to the weight between them. As they turned onto the wide avenue that led to the palace gates, Anya saw that the Nevarran Embassy was ablaze with guards carrying torches and every window was aglow. Her anxiousness mingled with her fear, making her heart continue its erratic pace.

They slowed as they passed the embassy, her ears straining to catch a hint of what had transpired. An officer, his armor gleaming in the torchlight, waved them to a halt.

"Commander?" he asked, frowning suspiciously at the trio. "Your Warden looks a bit worse for wear."

"Yes, I'm afraid my Second has overindulged."

The captain leaned closer, raising Nathaniel's chin and studying his face. His frown deepened. "Looks a bit scraped up," he commented, dropping his fingers. Nathaniel sagged against her.

"Yes, but the other man is in much worse shape," she replied with a wry smile. "I'm afraid the poor man underestimated Nathaniel."

She wanted to ask what was going on but she held her tongue, afraid to prolong the encounter. With a shrug, the captain waved them on and she was grateful to Carver for playing along.

The guards at the palace gates saluted her, swinging the gates open. Anya kept her smile in place until they were nearing the compound, her steps becoming increasingly unsteady as Nathaniel's weight began to pull at her muscles.

As soon as the door closed behind them, she turned to Carver. "Take him into my room and strip him. We need to find that wound."

She went in the opposite direction, to the small infirmary that held only the bare minimum of medical supplies. Her hands were shaking and she tried to take several deep breaths to steady them. What had he been thinking? And what had he been doing? A frisson of fear chased down her spine and coiled in her stomach. Anger was only a moment behind.

Nathaniel was as pale as a winter landscape and nearly as cold. His teeth were chattering and his body shuddered. "Bring extra blankets, Carver, and tea. Quickly," she added when Carver hesitated.

"He said it's swinwha, whatever that means," Carver said and then loped off to find more blankets.

"Swinwha? Swinwha? Soie Noire?" she asked Nathaniel, bending close. "Nathaniel, wake up or by the Maker, I'll beat you," she commanded.

Nathaniel's lids fluttered and opened, his pupils dilated. "C-c-cold," he mumbled.

"Nathaniel, is it Soie Noire?" she asked again, her voice sharpened by fear.

He blinked and nodded, his eyes sliding shut. "Nathaniel!" she said, giving him a rough shake. "Stay awake! Fight the poison!" she demanded, her mind stumbling to remember the antidote.

Black Silk was the preferred poison of _Le Pacte des Loups_, a group of mercenaries working out of Montsimmard. What was the Brotherhood of the Wolf doing in Denerim and what had they to do with Nathaniel?

She tried to recall everything she could remember about Soie Noire. It was made from spider venom and waxweed, and, in small amounts it was merely a nuisance, making the victim unnaturally cold because it was said to thin the blood. Prolonged poisoning or large doses brought about a very painful death.

"Carver, bring a surgery kit, blood lotus, elfroot and oil of aloe!" she called out.

She fumbled in her pouch, removed her dagger, and began expurgating the wound. "Keep fighting, Nathaniel, or by the Maker, I will make you wish you had," she hissed.

Carver, balancing a laden tray, finally returned. "He's going to fight like a madman when I start pouring this into his wound," she said, mixing the ingredients. "Hold him down, even if it means sitting on his chest."

As she poured the fluid into his wound, Nathaniel began to thrash about, arms flailing, and he cuffed Anya on the head hard enough to make her eyes water. "Carver," she growled in warning. "Keep him still."

Next, she threaded the hooked needle with catgut and began to stitch the wound closed. Nathaniel's pained groans broke her concentration several times, and by the time she was done, beads of sweat were trickling down her face.

After she had dressed the wound, she stood, her legs trembling. "I'll be back in a few minutes," she told Carver, who stood pale and subdued, by the bed.

"Yes, Commander," he replied in a shaky voice.

She knew just how he felt. She felt shaky all over and her hands and legs were trembling. She cleaned up and then poured herself a cup of tea. Her nerves were frayed, unraveling around her, and she didn't have time to pander to them. Several deep breaths later, she returned to sit by Nathaniel's side.

"Will he be all right?" Carver asked.

"We'll know in an hour or so. You needn't stay, though. In fact, I insist that you try and get some sleep."

Gideon returned just as Nathaniel fell into a deep, natural sleep. Anya stood, stretching. Her taut muscles protested as they uncoiled.

"What did you find out?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"He boarded a Nevarran ship down on the docks and there was no way to follow him," Gideon replied glumly.

Anya rubbed her forehead. She was exhausted and none of her questions seemed to lead to anything but more questions. "Nevarran? Are you sure?"

"Big black dragon on a blue field. Looked Nevarran to me."

She frowned, looking down at Nathaniel, her confusion growing.

"That's not all. I talked to the guards on my way in. Ambassador Pentaghast was nearly killed tonight and one of his guards was slain," Gideon continued. She stared at him, her heart pounding painfully.

"Please tell me this doesn't have anything to do with Nate looking like death," he added, staring down at Nathaniel.

Anya wished she could reassure him, but she found she was too numb to do more than sink back into her chair, speechless.

******_Choices are the hinges of destiny – Pythagoras (570 BC – 495 BC)_


	24. Whispers on the Wind

**A/N:** _First, I apologize for the delay in updates. The head-cold from Hell I complained about turned into bronchitis which led to a cracked rib from coughing. Who knew that was possible? _  
><em>A huge thanks to Lisa for the wonderful beta!<em>  
><em>Thank you Arsinoe, for the discussion on Anora and what she might do to win back her country, including sowing the seeds of discontent. <em>

**Whispers on the Wind**

It took every ounce of her determination to dress and leave the mansion. She would prefer to stay in her darkened room and let the world continue without her while she tried to decide just what she would do next. As much as she wanted to return to Ferelden, her mother's journal had tempered that with a need to restore the Amell name, and to ensure that the Hawke name became just as prominent in Kirkwall, to fulfill her mother's wishes. She would stay, at least for the time being, and, if she was going to stay, there was a great deal to do, including arranging her mother's memorial service and funeral pyre.

She dressed in a plain, dark gown and stepped out of the mansion, surprised to find it was a warm, bright day. The usual low clouds from the sea were burned away by a dazzling sun and the wind was a teasing sigh among the trees in the square. It seemed wrong, somehow, that the day was so beautiful. She clutched her mother's lavender silk gown – her favorite dress – as she made her way along the familiar streets of Hightown. Around her she heard the whispers of people as they saw her and she realized all of Hightown knew about her mother. Her steps quickened as she hurried to her destination, unhappy to be the cause of gossip.

"Margaret, I am so sorry about your mother. With the blessed grace of Andraste, Bride of the Maker, she is at peace now," Sebastian said with warm sincerity when she entered the chantry.

The words grazed against her thoughts, soothing her tormented mind. They were the balm applied lovingly to a ragged wound. She knew he believed his words, and, because he did, she accepted them. She was aware of his presence, and the effect of his words, but her mind continued to float just slightly out of her conscious thought.

Blinking, she tried to refocus on her task, glancing around at her surroundings. She stood in the vestibule of the chantry, clutching her mother's gown, unsure of the proper protocol, knowing only that she could not allow her mother to be laid on the funeral pyre still wearing the soiled white dress she'd been found in.

"I – I'm not sure what do about…I won't have my mother wear that hideous gown when…what…" she trailed off as a group of young sisters entered the chantry, a cool wind blowing in with them.

"I'll take care of it, Margaret. There are sisters here who are tending to her," Sebastian said kindly, and she nodded, still unable to let go of the dress.

"How did you survive it?" she whispered, forcing herself to hold his gaze. Her instinct was to curl up in a ball and close her eyes, to pretend that what had happened to her mother had been a nightmare; one she would wake up from soon.

"Time and prayer," he said quietly. "I thought vengeance was the answer. I thought knowing why would help. But we both know neither gave me peace. Give yourself time, Margaret."

"You have the most unshakeable faith," she murmured, wishing in that moment that she believed in the Maker with that same intensity. She reluctantly pried her fingers from the gown and handed it to Sebastian. She started to leave, but stopped, and looked over her shoulder at her friend.

"Have you seen Fenris?" she asked quietly.

He would never be a politician, his expression was far too honest and open. "Not since the other night," he finally replied and his eyes slid away from her, to study a point on the floor.

"Is something wrong?"

"I know it isn't my place, but I would urge caution, Margaret. Anders isn't to be trusted: he uses people and he won't hesitate to use you, should he need to."

Shaking her head, she took a step towards him, frowning as a knot of worry formed in her stomach. She believed she knew what Anders was capable of, and she wasn't so naïve as to believe she was immune from his machinations, but what did that have to do with Fenris?

"What has Anders done now?" she inquired as the disquiet inside her grew.

Bright blue eyes blinked and Sebastian gave a small shrug of his armor-clad shoulders. "I can't be certain. I arrived just as Fenris was leaving, but he was very upset by something, and, when I asked, Anders claimed he didn't know, but there was something in his manner that seemed…" Sebastian trailed off and gave half-hearted smile. "I'm sure it's just my imagination, Margaret."

Her frown deepened and she came to stand before him, placing a firm hand on his arm.

"Tell me what you suspect," she urged.

"He was smug, but he often is. You know him," he replied, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.

Smug? That was a kind word to describe the self-righteous and sanctimonious attitude Anders often reflected. Yet there were times when he seemed lost, and sorrow clung to him as tightly as a silk glove clung to skin. "You believe he said something to Fenris?" she finally asked when it became apparent that Sebastian would say nothing more without prodding.

Before he could speak, a young sister came up, shyly clasping her hands and staring down at the floor. "Her Eminence, Grand Cleric Elthina, asks that you might visit her, Serah Hawke," she said in a breathless voice.

Margaret felt a spike of panic send her heart racing. Her mind cried out that she wasn't ready to speak of her mother, that she wasn't up to putting on a polite mask and listening to others speak of her. She took a step back and then another but Sebastian gave her a reassuring smile.

"I'll accompany you," he said, taking her arm.

To her relief, Grand Cleric Elthina was brief and talked only about the memorial service. She was a kind, soft-spoken woman, although there were rumors that she was becoming weak and doddering in how she dealt with the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter. Margaret saw the woman's hands tremble slightly as they poured the tea into small, porcelain cups. Perhaps the rumors were true; the woman was old. But, although she was soft-spoken, there was an undertone of steel in her voice that set Margaret's unease to rest.

A short time later, arrangements for her mother's service finalized, Margaret gave Sebastian a brief smile and bade him farewell. Her talk with the grand cleric had given her a brief glimpse of her mother as a child, and, because of it, she felt her natural sense of calm restored, at least temporarily.

As she left the chantry she contemplated going to Fenris's mansion but found herself walking briskly past the stairs leading to his estate, seeking the comfort of her own home. She wrestled with her hurt and anger at Fenris's absence. She needed him, and that he had chosen not to be there for her cut deep. And what had Anders to do with it?

She hadn't the energy to focus on anything other than getting through the next day or two, and there was a letter she had to write. Carver deserved to hear about their mother's death from her, not some stranger. She knew that his commander would be there for him, but she wished she could tell him the news in person.

Gamlen was waiting for her when she arrived back at the estate. He was drawn and grey, his eyes shadowed by a grief she hadn't expected to see. He gave her a brief, awkward hug. There was an air of quiet desperation about him, and her heart reached through her own wall of grief to touch him.

"I've sent word to Carver," he began and she saw the effort he made to sound reassuring and comforting.

There was a moment's hesitation in her as she reconciled her desire to be the one to break the news to Carver with her relief that she didn't have to write such a letter. His unexpected thoughtfulness touched her, and, though she would never say so, knowing instinctively that he would not accept her words or actions, she was grateful for his presence and his surprising strength.

"Thank you, Uncle," she said kindly, reaching out and gently squeezing a hand that rested nervously on the arm of his chair. He turned his hand over and squeezed hers in return.

"No need to get all mawkish," he said querulously after a moment, and jerked his hand away from hers. It didn't matter. She had seen beneath his gruff, rough exterior to see an unexpectedly thoughtful man underneath.

It was the first time in days that she had felt a genuine smile curve her lips.

**~~~oOo~~~**

He awoke to find Anya sitting in a chair beside his bed, her hand resting lightly on his chest. Fatigue shadowed her eyes, and her expression held concern and recrimination in equal measure.

"You are an idiot," she announced bluntly.

"Anya," he began, trying to sit up. He winced as he felt the stitches tighten and pull against his skin, giving up when he realized he would only exacerbate the wound in his side.

"You don't want me to lie to you, but you are willing enough to lie to me. I should be furious with you. The only reason I'm not is because I knew you were lying and said nothing. But that will be the last time," she added, an implacable warning in her voice.

He reached for her hand, squeezing her fingers gently. "You're right. I'm an idiot," he whispered, his voice harsher than he had intended. He didn't bother to defend himself; she had every right to be angry with him. He'd been wrong to lie to her, even if he'd done so for what he considered the right reasons. Had the roles been reversed, he would have been furious.

She leaned forward, resting her head against his chest, her hair spreading out; dark red against the pallor of his skin like a splash of wine. He rested his fingers in their silken strands, holding her close to him and breathing raggedly against the lancing pain in his side, and the deeper emotional pain of realizing how wrong he'd been.

"You would have died had we not stumbled across you," she whispered. Her breath was a warm sigh of wind against his skin.

"And, had you been caught, there would be no saving you, Nathaniel," she added, her voice muffled by his chest.

"Obviously I didn't intend to be caught," he replied dryly, stroking her hair.

"Nobody ever intends to be caught," she chided. "Now tell me, does this have anything to do with the attack on Micah Pentaghast?"

His hand stilled in her hair as he tried to digest what she was saying. "You aren't accusing me, are you?" he asked quietly.

She sat up so suddenly that his fingers tangled in her hair. Indignation darkened her blue eyes. "Did I call you an idiot? I meant you're an imbecile!" she huffed, pushing his hand aside so quickly that he brought several strands of her hair with him.

Before he could apologize, she continued hotly, "But I don't think it's a coincidence that you were poisoned on the same night he was attacked and one of his guards killed. It's lucky for you that you tried to cleanse your wound, as I suspect it kept you alive. Convenient of you to have a flask of whiskey on hand."

"I always keep a flask on me when I'm out and about at night," he replied.

She snorted. "Yes, I'm familiar with the drunken man ploy, Nathaniel. What were you doing?"

"Reconnaissance. I didn't want to try and find my way to Pentaghast's office tonight; it would have taken too long."

"Maker's breath, Nathaniel, whatever possessed you to be so reckless?"

He felt his anger slowly uncoil and he sat up, growling at the pain in his side. "I did what I thought was best for your safety," he said, and mentally cursed himself for the coldness in his voice. He took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm your Second. Part of my job is ensuring your safety. I have failed at that before. I won't allow myself to do it again."

"You need to disabuse yourself of that notion right now. I should have stopped you last night. I won't allow you to take those types of risks again, Nathaniel. Do I make myself clear?"

They locked eyes and he would have to be blind not to see the anger and disappointment in her eyes. Had he been the commander and she a subordinate, he would have thrown her in a cell for a few days.

"Yes, Commander," he replied stiffly.

"And how were you caught? You're the best shadow-walker I've ever seen," she went on, standing up to pace the small confines of his room.

"A question I'll be asking myself for some time to come," he replied wryly.

"If anyone asks, you were with us at the Copper Fox last night. You had too much to drink and got into a brawl with some thugs…" she began and then turned to face him. "Do you remember anything about the person who attacked you?"

Nathaniel leaned back, closing his eyes, recalling the brief struggle. "Only that he was a bit shorter than me, and thinner. I left some bruises on his throat and he'll have some trouble talking for a few days."

"It's strange, isn't it, that someone attacked the ambassador but didn't kill him? Gideon was out early this morning trying to get some more information. Micah wasn't poisoned, as you were. The guard, however, was. Why kill the guard to get to your target and then not complete the job?"

"Maybe he was interrupted?" Nathaniel asked, swinging his legs off the bed and sitting up in one move, his stitches rebelling.

"Where do you think you're going?" Anya demanded, hands on her hips as she glared at him.

Before he could answer, Gideon poked his head around the door. "The High Lord Chancellor is heading this way and he doesn't look happy."

Anya glanced at Nathaniel and shook her head. "That can't be good. Are you sure you weren't seen last night?"

Nathaniel frowned briefly. "Obviously I was seen last night," he began, pushing himself off the bed to stand on wobbly legs. "But not by the guards at the embassy and not by the King's Guard."

"That's not entirely true. We brought you through the main gate with us, but you reeked of whiskey and we let them know you'd gotten into a fight. Let's hope that they believed us."

She helped him settle his shirt and tunic in place and he was shaking with exertion by the time he was dressed. He sat down on the edge of the bed again, angry at his own weakness, as she brushed and braided his hair. "If it matters at all, I'm sorry," he admitted.

She yanked at one of his braids, a sharp pull that made his eyes water. "I should hope so. I need to be able to trust you, Nathaniel. You're possessed of great common sense; it's why I chose you as my Second. However, if our relationship has made it impossible for you to exercise discretion and judgment, tell me now."

Her words were sharp and accurate and though he wanted to argue with her, to dispute their truth, he couldn't. He'd behaved like a moonstruck idiot and it had nearly cost him his life, as well as her reputation. He pulled her close, ignoring the pain as he wrapped his arms around her.

"It won't happen again, Anya. You have my word on it."

**~~~oOo~~~**

Rumors of a coming war with the Qunari were rampant in Darktown. Anders, setting a broken arm on a young Fereldan man, had little patience for the wild speculation that was spreading like the plague.

"Listen, they've been here for years. Why would they suddenly declare war? And there can't be more than a hundred of them in that compound of theirs. How dangerous can they be?" he asked testily.

"Way I hear it, they've got bombs and poisons and such that could kill us all while we sleep," the man replied nervously. "Best make peace with 'em, is what I say."

**As if the denizens of Darktown needed another reason to be nervous and upset. As if just surviving isn't enough for them**. **There has to be a way to help them.**

_**What do you care, honestly? You pretend to assist these people who are beyond help. You could be so much more than you are. **_

**Don't start that again. I do care! You're the one who doesn't care about anyone else. **

Anders felt a flare of anger, hot and white in his mind. He missed Justice's calming influence but the spirit had become quieter and quieter over the past few days. He rubbed his temples.

_**So melodramatic, Anders. Really, you should be on stage**_**. **_**But you waste your talents here in Darktown; you could be the most important man in Thedas. You only need put your mind to it. **_

**What do you mean, the most important man in Thedas? I'm a mage and some would say an abomination. So tell me, Vengeance, how can I be more than a hunted apostate?**

_**All in good time, Anders, all in good time**_**. **

With a growl of frustration, Anders closed the clinic and made his way through the underground tunnels to the wine cellar. After washing up and changing into clean robes, he went up to the main floor of the mansion and into the kitchen, where Orana was peeling vegetables. Beside her was Margaret, her face calm as she diced the peeled vegetables.

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to help at the clinic today, Anders. There are so many arrangements to be made," she apologized.

He studied her with a healer's eye. She was pale and there were circles under her eyes where grief had robbed her of sleep, but she wore a mantle of acceptance, and she looked to be regaining her equilibrium. He found himself tensing, waiting for her to question him about Fenris, but he forced himself to speak.

"It was surprisingly calm in the clinic today. I actually had time to play Diamondback with the patients," he remarked, fixing a grin on his lips.

She rolled her eyes and smirked. "So there is no need for my help in the clinic? Perfect. I will have to take up politics," she teased as she put the vegetables into a large pot.

Anders laughed, the sound surprising him, and his shoulders relaxed as he leaned against the doorjamb. "There'll always be need of you in the clinic," he assured her.

She pointed to a jar just out of her reach and said, "If you can reach that, I'll see if I can't manage another day or two at the clinic."

He did as he was asked and then continued to watch her, his nervousness gone in the face of her lighter mood. Maybe her devotion to Fenris had been more of a rebellion against her mother, and, with the woman gone, Margaret's need for Fenris had gone as well. He found himself grinning as he helped set the table, his mood lighter than it had been just an hour earlier.

_Anders, do not use her as you used Anya. _

While he was relieved to hear Justice's voice, he was not happy with the spirit's words.

**I didn't use Anya. She used me. She needed a healer and I was convenient. She left me to the templars the minute I was no longer useful**.

_Anders, listen to yourself. You lie to yourself because you cannot bear the truth, but desist with this notion that I believe your words. Anya did not leave you to the templars. You gave her no choice but to fight you. How easily you deceive yourself._

Anders was surprised at the sorrow in Justice's voice; it was disconcerting. Before he could form a reply Vengeance spoke, and the words made Anders feel cold and desolate.

_**I believe that Anders is correct, Justice. Were I you, I would be most careful in your accusations**_.

_Will you destroy her when you have what you need of her, Anders? Will you turn on her as you turned on Anya? What is it you want from her? _

_**That is enough, Justice. Your hold grows weaker by the day. Do not force my hand in this.**_

"Anders?" Margaret's voice penetrated Anders's thoughts and he blinked.

"I'm sorry, gathering wool here. What did you say?"

**~~~oOo~~~**

Teagan was not happy. His usual charming smile was absent and his blue eyes were sharp and cool. "You have no doubt heard of the attack on the Nevarran ambassador?" he asked as soon as they had seated themselves in her small office.

"Yes, how worrying. Have you any idea who is responsible?" Anya asked, meeting his eyes.

"No, I'm afraid not. But we'll continue to investigate. This is not the first such attack, unfortunately. The Rivaini embassy was broken into a month ago and three guards were injured, a priceless heirloom was stolen and the Rivaini ambassador is considering closing the embassy. Several weeks before that, there was an attack at the Orlesian embassy. No-one was hurt in that episode but there was quite a bit of vandalism. Each attack is worse than the last."

Anya frowned, her fingers drumming on the desk as she digested the news. "Do you suppose it's a nationalist who wants to see all foreigners depart Ferelden? Are you suggesting I might be in danger?"

Teagan shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. "I doubt the Hero of Amaranthine is in danger," he replied with a tight smile. "And, until last night, there had been no serious injuries. Whoever is responsible is becoming emboldened by their successes."

"So it would seem. How may I help?"

"The guards tell me that you were out last night and came back shortly after the alarm was raised. Did you see anything suspicious?"

Anya shook her head, feigning regret as her heart raced. "I'm afraid we were busy trying to get Nathaniel's wounds tended to. There are still enough of Howe's enemies in Denerim to make his visits here dangerous."

She felt the weight of Teagan's stare and she smiled ruefully. "I imagine there are those in the palace who won't be unhappy to hear that Nathaniel fared worse than his attackers."

The First Chancellor had the grace to look faintly apologetic. "I'm afraid King Alistair doesn't let go of his grudges easily," Teagan admitted. "He can't forgive Rendon Howe's perfidy during the civil war and Blight. It's understandable, considering he was taken to Fort Drakon and tortured while trying to free Anora."

"Yes, I understand his grievance against _Rendon _Howe, but surely he is mature enough to realize that Nathaniel was not involved. He was in the Free Marches at the time."

Teagan rubbed his brow lightly, looking uncomfortable. Anya took pity on him and smiled kindly. "It must be very difficult to be such a young and untrained monarch. I'm sure you are doing everything within your power to help him grow into his role," she said smoothly.

"There are more times than not that I miss Rainesfere," he admitted and then straightened his shoulders. "But he was the better choice. Anora's grave lapses during the Blight could not be allowed to stand."

Lapses? The woman had allowed her father to open the Alienage to slavers, turned a blind eye to Rendon Howe's savage butchery in Highever, at Castle Cousland, and Maker knew what else. "Is it possible she is sowing seeds of discontent?" Anya asked quietly and watched Teagan's expression carefully, noting a flash of surprise, followed quickly by one of relief.

"Yes, I think it's possible. We've confiscated several seditious pamphlets and tried to still the rumors but there are those who remember the years under her reign as prosperous and peaceful."

"Surely they can't blame Alistair for the Blight? Or the madness that drove Loghain to desert his king on the battlefield? Or refusing to allow the Grey Wardens and support troops to cross the border to stop the Blight before it devastated the southern reaches of Ferelden?"

"There are those who believe that Alistair has even less claim to the throne than Anora and they would like to see her returned to it."

Anya frowned. Politics were determined to dog her, it seemed. "Teagan, the very best thing Alistair can do for Ferelden's stability is marry the daughter of the most influential of these malcontents and produce an heir. Surely you know that?"

"Of course I know it," Teagan began impatiently and stopped to take a deep breath. Anya's sympathy grew for the usually patient and intelligent advisor, who seemed to be aging before her very eyes.

"Forgive me, Teagan. It isn't my place to say such things."

"No, no, Anya. I'm the one who should apologize. This whole situation has me seeing enemies in every shadow."

"A wise man once said that it is not the shadows one must fear, but the whispers upon the wind; it is the whisperers that sow dissent."

"We should bring Anora back here, try her and execute her for treason. We can't allow these agitators to continue to cause trouble. The attacks against the ambassadors, as well as those against our trading ships, only continue to weaken our nation," Teagan said emphatically. He stood and clasped his hands behind him, staring at her. "Can you take that message to the Divine?"

"Will that calm the waters or set them ablaze, do you suppose?" Anya asked, feeling less triumphant than she had thought to. She hadn't known about the rising dissent among the people of Ferelden when she had first anticipated his request. Would Anora's trial and execution turn into a civil war or would it finally quiet the unrest in Ferelden?

"I'll have the formal request drawn up and in your hands before you return to Amaranthine. No doubt it will take some time before all the negotiations and arrangements are finalized. Hopefully before that time I can arrange an advantageous marriage for Alistair," Teagan continued and then sighed wearily. "Thank you, Anya. Alistair and I appreciate your service to the crown."

Anya watched him walk away; a man who carried the weight of the nation on his shoulders. Would they find a peaceful resolution or would war once more ravage Ferelden? She sighed and went in search of Nathaniel.

The crown had done exactly as she had wanted, but it did not feel like a victory.


	25. Forbearance

**A/N: **_There is an NSFW section later on in the chapter. Updates may become a bit more sporadic through the holidays, but hopefully not.  
>For all those who asked: I'm over the bronchitis and my rib is much better now that I'm not constantly coughing. Thank you for your kind and encouraging words!<br>Lisa...you are a lifesaver! Thank you for your hard work on this mess of a chapter! _

**Forbearance**

By the third day in Denerim, Anya was more than ready to return to the Vigil and plan her next move. Micah Pentaghast's condition prevented her from seeing him and she was forced to leave a carefully worded letter for him.

She sent Gideon to the docks in the hope of determining where the ship that Windym had boarded was bound for and to listen to the local gossip. She and Carver went to the city stables, purchasing a horse and saddlery for their mage recruit, Flynne, and the morning they should have left, she had Gideon meet Flynne and bring him back to the compound.

Nathaniel was improving, but there was an angry look to his wound that worried Anya. As soon as Flynne arrived, she took him to Nathaniel's bedside to examine the wound.

"Poisoned blade?" the mage asked, probing the fiery red skin around the stitches.

"Black Silk, if you are at all familiar with poisons," Anya responded.

Eyebrows drawn up in surprise, the mage nodded. "I've seen it a time or two. I'll need bearded cowslip, elfroot and oak bark tisane. There's an apothecary in the market district. Anyone there can direct you."

Nathaniel sat up, a small hum of pain escaping. "I'm fine," he protested.

"Yes, of course you are, Nathaniel. In fact, I'm surprised you aren't up and training," Anya retorted with a shake of her head. "Now lie still and let our healer work his magic on you," she added as she left the room.

She sent Carver out for the supplies before returning to sit quietly as Flynne worked on Nathaniel's side. She found the bluish glow of the healing spell reassuring, and Nathaniel's color slowly returned as the mage continued to work.

"Whoever stitched his wound didn't do half bad," Flynne remarked, carefully pulling the stitches out and healing the skin as he worked.

"I've never been all that good at sewing. My mother despaired of my inability to form a row of perfect, neat stitches," Anya laughed. "I was a great disappointment to her ambitions, I fear."

Seemingly satisfied with his work, Flynne excused himself to wait for Carver's return and Anya took Nathaniel's hand in hers. "I want to talk about your zeal in protecting me from any and every thing," she said quietly.

"My word not to do something like this again isn't good enough?" he asked, his voice gruff.

"I didn't mean to wound your pride, Nathaniel, but I want to know why you feel this need. Help me to understand, and, for the Maker's sake, do not spout that folderol of your being my Second," she added firmly.

She watched as Nathaniel struggled to find the words that would comply with her demand. She knew he was a private person; that he held his feelings tightly to him, but she also knew that if she didn't disabuse him of the notion that he had to protect her, he would be forced to break his word to her. And that was something she didn't want to see happen because he was an honorable man and keeping his promises was as important to him as maintaining his privacy.

When the silence had stretched tightly enough to snap her nerves she spoke again. "Is this because you see me as helpless? That I'm crippled and therefore can't take care of myself properly?"

He flinched, his eyes silver in the light streaming into the room from the mid-day sun. He struggled to sit up and when he had, his face was pinched with pain. She was immediately sorry she'd started the conversation, but once started, she was not about to drop the matter.

"Of course it isn't, but don't think that every time I see you walk I don't feel remorse and guilt for not being there when you needed me," he said in the same gruff voice, layered with pain and regret.

"There was nothing you could have done, Nathaniel, except die. You truly need to send any guilt you feel packing. There isn't room for it."

Again the silence stretched between them and Anya's frustration mounted, but she bit back her impatience and waited.

"I think I've mentioned my mother before," he began and then stopped, his expression melancholic.

She squeezed his hand in encouragement, aware of how difficult it was for him to bare his soul to anyone.

"I've only loved three women in my life and I've managed not to be there for any of them when they most needed me. My mother was a remarkable woman, but I didn't realize it for years because I was too busy trying to get my father's approval. By the time I understood what a bastard he was, my mother had taken to her bed and she died shortly after I was sent to squire in the Free Marches. I believe my father had a hand in her death. In fact, I'm sure of it. If he didn't kill her outright, his abuses did the job for him. I think, from the symptoms Delilah described, she died from absinthe poisoning."

He looked down at their entwined hands and then settled his bleak gaze on her. "I should have been there for her, should have given her more respect, helped her."

Anya's eyes watered. Her childhood had been blessed, and, listening to Nathaniel, she began to understand his overpowering need to come to her rescue. She carefully schooled her expression, knowing him well enough to know that outward signs of pity would not only be rebuffed, but would cause wounds to a very proud man.

"And Delilah. She was forced to marry a shopkeeper to escape my father's cruelty. I should have – I could have done _something_ to protect her, but I was so wrapped up in my own life that I couldn't be bothered. My father was a vituperative and vicious bastard and I should have killed him when I had the chance," he said bitterly.

Anya's heart ached for the unnecessary guilt Nathaniel carried, his wounds far deeper than her physical wounds. She bent and dropped a light kiss on his forehead. "You take far more onto your shoulders than is healthy, Nathaniel. You need to learn how to release it," she admonished, trying to instill all her love into her words. "You are no more responsible for them than you are responsible for Anders attacking me."

"But I should have been there for you," he stated bluntly. "I should have known."

"Now, you listen to me, Nathaniel Howe, and listen carefully. You are not to blame for any of this, and trying to assume the blame allows both Anders and your father victories they don't deserve. Rendon Howe was sick and twisted in ways we can't even imagine, and you are _nothing_ like him. _Nothing_," she repeated vehemently. "You are honorable and kind, Nathaniel. You have so much good inside you."

She watched as his eyes slid shut and a long sigh came out. "I have his temper, Anya. There are times when I…" he trailed off and took a deep breath. She saw the struggle in him and wished fervently that she had the power to take his pain away from him, but only he could relinquish that pain.

They were interrupted by the return of Flynne. She gave Nathaniel a reassuring smile and then released his hand, stepping back to allow the mage room to work.

"We'll continue this later," she promised, although she suspected they wouldn't. Nathaniel had been far more open than he'd ever been with her and she doubted he would allow himself to open up again.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The house was impossibly empty with her mother gone, and Margaret found herself drifting from room to room, as if she would stumble across her mother if she did so. The days weighed heavily on her, the nights echoing with silence. But it was not just her mother's absence that made each day a burden. She waited for Fenris to understand how his defection had wounded her. She had adamantly refused to give him any thought at all the first day, but the harder she tried to avoid such thoughts, the more determined they became to invade her mind.

She spent time sorting out her mother's personal effects and falling into bed each night, exhausted, but unable to sleep, her mind a jumble of half-formed thoughts and regrets. Anders tried to entertain her over dinner each evening, but she was only vaguely aware of him.

Just when she had decided Fenris was not going to come to his senses, Bodahn announced his arrival. She was in the library, arranging freshly cut roses from the garden, and he needn't have bothered because she felt the deep vibrations of her magic stirring as it responded to Fenris's lyrium branding. Her heart's tempo quickened, beating a swift staccato in her breast, but she remained quiet, her back to him, the only sound in the room the soft click of the door shutting.

"Hawke – I – Margaret," he corrected before trailing off.

Her fingers tightened their hold on the long stems and she saw the roses quiver in protest at their ill-treatment. Still, she didn't speak, or acknowledge Fenris, waiting for him to continue. Her relief at his return, and her hurt at his defection, began to war with each other and she took a steadying breath.

"I do not know what I can say to alleviate the pain you must be experiencing. I have even less idea what I can say to mitigate my craven behavior," he began again. She could tell how restless and nervous he was as he shifted from one foot to the other.

"I...allowed my fear and doubt to control my actions yet again. I will not ask you to forgive me; I do not believe I am entitled to that forgiveness," he continued, his voice low and full of self-loathing. "I am here, now, and I offer you my sword arm, if you still have need of it."

Disappointment and anger shivered along her nerves. She didn't need his blasted sword arm, she needed his support. She needed to be able to trust that he wouldn't run at the first sign of demonstrative emotion. When would he learn that not everything could be resolved by either running away or battling it with physical force?

"You were at the memorial service, Fenris. I _saw_ you in the back of the chantry, but you didn't even offer condolences," she accused sharply, surprised by the tremor of anger in her voice. She continued to examine the rapidly deteriorating health of the roses.

Three stems had snapped and a fourth was in danger of following. Blood began to ooze where a thorn had dug into the pad of her index finger. She released her destructive grasp on the stems and set them carefully beside the vase.

"I have no words to adequately express my condolences, Margaret. I have nothing worthy to offer you, except my sword, and that, I gladly offer."

Only then did she turn to face him, one fluid movement to convey her anger. "I needed your strength, Fenris. I needed to know that you would be there for me so I could lean on you."

"You were surrounded by strong people, Margaret. All of them knew what to say and how to help," he defended, but there was little conviction in his tone, even less in his demeanor. She didn't answer and he did not continue. There was shame in every angle of his stance and she wanted to lift that shame for him, even knowing that she couldn't. He had to learn to believe he was worthy of a good life, and no matter how much she believed it, until he did, things would never change.

She listened to the silence for several long moments, wondering if it would ever be possible to breach his protective walls and destroy them once and for all. She hoped so, a fervent hope that stabbed at the part of her that was afraid to believe in him again, afraid to be disappointed again.

"You sit in that decrepit, rat-infested mansion and wait for Danarius to return, still every bit the slave you ever were. In all this time, you have yet to unshackle yourself, even though you hold the key to your freedom," she said, her voice humming with frustration.

"So you have said before, Margaret, but what is it you would have me do?"

"Will you always find an excuse to run from life? Will you disappear every time you are afraid of an emotional situation? If so, how will you ever learn to properly deal with them?" she asked, exasperated. Would he see the answer to his question in her response or would he avoid it as he usually did? She rubbed futilely at her temples where a headache was forming.

His eyes widened as realization swept through him, followed swiftly by a look of profound shame. He took a step closer and halted, his voice rough with emotion when he spoke. "I am sorry for your loss, Margaret. I cannot imagine how difficult losing your mother must be, but, if you wish to talk about it, I am here, now."

Margaret fought back the tears that hovered just behind her lids so frequently now. "Until the next crisis," she retorted sharply, clasping her hands in front of her and stubbornly refusing to move.

"No!" he protested and Margaret wondered if he was denying it to himself or if he expected her to believe his denial.

"Why are you so willing to believe the worst, yet you're unable to believe you are worthy of love? Of _my_ love? It isn't up to you to question how I feel, or why. You just need to accept it."

"A lifetime of slavery cannot be overcome merely because you wish it," he replied, a savage note in his voice. He sighed and fell silent again. With an uncharacteristic gesture, he pushed his hair back, his eyes seeking hers.

She considered his words, frowning. Was that what she expected? Had they not stood in this same place before? The familiarity of the words burned in her throat. "It will never be overcome if you constantly disappear when emotions become frightening. Ask yourself if love isn't the very thing that can conquer your doubt and fear."

Another step forward and Fenris was close enough that she could smell the sandalwood soap on his skin and she closed her eyes for a minute, breathing deeply, before she opened them, pinning Fenris in place with narrowed eyes.

"I do try..." he began but she cut him off with a wave of her hand, dismissing his words.

"Try harder," she commanded shortly, her patience wavering and beginning to crumble. "How will I be able to trust that you'll be there when I need you? You run the moment you feel threatened by strong emotion, and I can't keep setting myself up for that kind of pain." Oh Maker, she sounded like some put-upon heroine in a badly written novel, for all that it was how she felt.

"I see. You would extract a promise from me, then?" he asked stiffly.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry at that. Her heart decided for her as her lips twitched. Hadn't they made any progress at all? And who was the more stubborn and foolish? She pressed her lips together, unwilling to let him escape her wrath too quickly. But it was too late, he'd seen the hint of a smile, and, rather than being relieved, he seemed angry.

"This situation hardly merits your amusement," he said, his voice tense and his eyebrows drawn low.

Her smile wobbled and she tilted her head. "Would you prefer I cry?" she asked, the threat clear. Tears were there, dancing on her lashes, and it would take only a misstep on his part to bring them cascading down her cheeks. Her pride warred with that part of her that thought he deserved to be drowned in her tears, if only to teach him a lesson.

Panic leapt to life in his eyes, but he held his ground. She saw the struggle within him to stay where he was. The first notes of hope stirred strongly in her, a faint song her heart sang to her head.

"If that is what you feel compelled to do, Margaret, so be it," he said resolutely. "I will not run from your tears." Her smile wobbled again when he braced himself.

Given permission by Fenris, tears formed and began a slow descent down her cheeks and she let them fall, her smile tremulous. His hand reached out then, tentative fingers stretching to brush at her tears. She felt his fingers tremble slightly but remain at their task, and she closed her eyes, allowing herself to believe that he would catch her should she fall just as he caught her tears.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Nathaniel stirred and rolled closer to the warm body sleeping beside him. He rested his hand lightly on a soft hip, letting it skim along silken skin. Anya stirred and mumbled something unintelligible before shifting closer to him. He bent and trailed kisses along the curve of her shoulder until his lips rested against the soft skin along her neck. He sucked gently and she sighed.

"Nathaniel," she whispered sleepily and wound her arm behind her to pull him closer. "You're supposed to be resting," she said around a yawn.

He lifted his lips reluctantly. "I am," he assured her, continuing his exploration of her neck.

She smelled like the air just after a rainstorm, with a hint of vanilla drifting underneath. Firelight caught her hair, turning it into living flame, and her skin was softly golden. He brushed several strands of her hair aside, allowing his lips to continue their exploration.

Her breath caught when his hand moved to her waist and she rolled onto her back, opening her eyes. "You _need_ to rest," she chided.

He bent to capture a pebbled nipple in his mouth and bit gently before releasing it and looking at her, smiling suggestively. "This _is_ resting," he replied.

"If you persist, you will not be resting, I assure you."

Her fingers wove through his hair, and he groaned as she pulled him down to her. He found her mouth and demanded her compliance. Her lips parted as his tongue found hers. She arched her hips, pressing against him.

"Then persist I will," he whispered, suckling her breast greedily. She moaned softly, her hands tugging urgently at his hair. The pain rippled through him, wrapping around his desire and drawing it taut as he lowered himself into her.

His teeth nipped sharply at her breast and she gasped, her hips grinding against him. Her fingers left his hair and trailed along his back, sharp nails dragging along his skin, sending a wave of pleasured pain spiking in his blood.

He shifted away from her, withdrawing. She let out a soft whimper of impatience, rolling over onto her stomach and raising up on her knees and elbows, her golden skin a gleaming invitation. He found the scar along her hip, and bent, tracing it with his fingers and tongue, his hair brushing along her skin. Her sharp intake of breath heated his shaft, throbbing warmth that pulsed through him, and he groaned as his fingers curled into her flesh.

She thrust against him, urging him on, but he refused to be rushed, drawing out the sensations with every bit of control he could find. He entered her wet warmth gradually, slowly pushing into her. He felt her muscles clench around him and he shuddered at the sensation. He bit back a groan, but another escaped as he continued his deliberate, controlled strokes.

She wriggled slightly, pushing against him again, demanding, and he uncurled his fingers from her hip, searching for her bud, already slick with her juices. He began to massage it, his breath taken away when her fingers curled around his. Still he held himself back, each thrust slow and measured. She whimpered, her breath coming in short gasps as she tried to speed up the tempo.

"I won't break," she whispered, enticing him with her body. He growled, feral pleasure sweeping into him as he began to quicken the pace, pounding into her, a fingertip flicking at her bud relentlessly.

Her walls quivered around his shaft, tightening their grip as her climax vibrated through her, his name a song falling from her lips, high and sweet as she writhed in release. His own climax was pushing along his nerves, and his fingers curled into the flesh of her hips again, holding her in place as he slammed into her. Spasms chased along his body as he spilled into her, his movements becoming frantic. He shuddered, arching his back again before slowly withdrawing from her.

He collapsed beside her, trying to regain his breath. She rolled onto her back and flung an arm across her eyes, her breathing ragged. With a groan, she pushed herself up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, padding to the wash basin. He propped himself up to watch the firelight play against her skin and his heart slammed into his chest. He loved her with a depth that robbed him of breath and he held his arms out to her when she settled beside him once more. She nestled into him, her head resting on his shoulder. Her fingers curled into the dark whorls of hair on his chest.

"Marry me," he whispered against the crown of her hair.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anders stared at the dwarf, his eyes narrowed. "You told me you would have a sample to me by the end of the day. Where is it?"

"You think the Arishok is going to just hand over a sample? I told you it would take time."

Anders felt a tight coil of anger in his stomach and he clenched his jaw until his desire to fry the man had passed. "You have one more day. If you don't have it by then, you won't have to worry about getting it," he said coldly.

As he hurried along the streets of Lowtown, he wondered if he would ever get the sample of black powder he needed to make his own gaatlok. It seemed unlikely, but he'd seen the fear in the dwarf's dark eyes and hoped it would propel the man to greater efforts.

_**We are in no rush, Anders. If we do not obtain the gaatlok in time to use it when war with the Qunari breaks out, we will be able to obtain some during the conflict and use it at a later date.**_

**The sooner we use it, the sooner the revolution can begin. I'm sick and tired of trying to help one mage at a time. There has to be a better way and this seems the best option. **

_How is killing innocents just, Anders? How can you even contemplate such an action?_

Anders felt a ripple of anger, and deep underneath the anger rode a trickle of guilt, but he was finding it easier and easier to ignore the guilt and concentrate on the mission: to free the mage slaves throughout Thedas, beginning in Kirkwall.

**Wasn't it you who insisted we help free the mages? Didn't you accuse the Chantry and templars of cruelly and unjustly imprisoning my fellow magi? Isn't that the reason you insisted on merging with me? ** The accusation was spiteful and harsh but he felt no remorse at his words.

_This is not justice, Anders. Do not pretend otherwise._

_**Silence! We'll act when the time is right, and not before. There is no need to continue this discourse, Spirit! Withdraw!**_

Anders turned to the stairway leading to Hightown, anxious to be home. Home. He smiled, realizing that he did, in fact, feel as though the Amell Estate was home. Margaret would be waiting for him and he quickened his pace at that thought.

Not since before Anya's betrayal had he felt at home anywhere, yet Margaret greeted him each evening and they prepared their shared dinner together, discussing the patients he had seen in the clinic. While she hadn't returned to the clinic to assist, he knew she would when she was ready.

"Flowers, serah?" asked a young girl, waving a posy of violets, tied with a shiny green ribbon, at him.

"How much, young lady?" he asked jovially.

"Forty silver, serah, and not a copper less!"

Anders grinned. "Worth every silver and then some," he replied, digging into his coin purse and withdrawing fifty silver. "The extra is for you. Mind you hide it from the others," he warned, wagging a finger at her.

"Thank you, serah! Good evening to you!"

Anders was still grinning when he arrived at the mansion. Bodahn opened the door before he could knock.

"Good evening, Ser Anders. Lady Margaret has a guest," Bodahn greeted, waving at the door to the library.

Anders nodded, moving to the door. As he prepared to knock and enter, he froze. A raspy voice, the words lost but the voice distinct, was answered by Margaret's dulcet laughter. He stared at the polished mahogany door and then at the posy of violets. Anger flowed through him, a river threatening to overrun its banks.

Fenris.


	26. Faith

**A/N:**_ Lisa, you are a marvel! I thank you so much for helping me get this chapter done! You really are a wonderful gift._  
><em>I want to wish everyone Happy Holidays and to express my sincere thanks for reading, lurking and reviewing. Thank you! <em>

**Faith **

She wanted to say yes. The word was pushing at her lips, demanding to be spoken, but somewhere else, somewhere deeper, a voice whispered _no_. A thought flitted through her that it was just a natural leap for him to make after their love-making, but she knew better than that. She could feel his breath, gentle puffs of wind against her hair as she continued to rest against him.

Silence fell between them, a silence that was as profound as a breath held in anticipation, fraught with overtones that tingled along her nerves. She felt Nathaniel's body stiffen, heard his heart thump erratically in his chest, breaking the silence and the paralysis her thoughts had brought about.

"I am honored that you would ask, Nathaniel, but weren't you the one, not very long ago, who wanted to keep our relationship a secret from everyone?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper of nerves.

"I was, but you were intent on announcing it to the world, which you did. Now that everyone knows about us, I won't have them thinking ill of you."

His words made it easier for her thoughts to coalesce. She slipped out of his arms, sliding out of bed. Shrugging into her wrapper, she cinched the belt tightly around her waist, averting her face. "I see. Your proposal was to protect me, to silence the gossips?" she asked, surprised by the calmness in her voice because she felt far from calm. "That is a poor reason for marriage, Nathaniel."

She heard him rise and the lamp flared, illuminating the room, but she refused to turn and look at him, afraid of the hurt she would see in his eyes. _Coward_, she chastised silently, forcing her stiff muscles to move, to turn and face him. She did so reluctantly to see that it was not hurt in his grey eyes, but confusion.

"We love each other, Anya. Marriages have thrived on far less," he remarked in a gruff, quiet voice.

"But something between us has changed. Or perhaps not changed, but rather something has come to light, Nathaniel, and until we work through whatever it is, getting married will only cause the problem to worsen."

His face shifted into shadows as he took a step back, leaving her unable to discern his expression or his thoughts. Scrubbing at her face with the heels of her hands, as if to scrub away the last vestiges of her own confusion, she tried to find the words to explain what her heart was whispering to her.

"When I was seven, I found a bird, a baby, really, and I scooped it up and carried it home. He was so soft, Nathaniel, so perfectly formed. He sang so mournfully, so beautifully, that I held him tightly, determined to keep him with me always. To protect him.

"My father discovered the bird, which I had named Chansons, and said I had to let it go, that a life in captivity was intolerable to any living creature. I…I couldn't do it, Nathaniel. I was afraid that he would die if I set him free, that he would fly away and I would never see him again, and convinced myself that it was my duty to protect him."

Nathaniel moved closer, his expression rebellious, and Anya knew a protest was forming on his lips. She pressed her fingertips to them, shaking her head as tears began to burn her throat.

"I held him close to me, tightly so that no one would take him, harm him. I – I held him so tightly that I crushed him…so fierce was my need to protect him that I killed him."

Her tears, newly formed and hot, slipped like silent recriminations down her cheeks. "I was beside myself with remorse and grief, inconsolable. My father sat down beside me on the floor, where I was still holding onto Chansons because I was somehow convinced my tears would bring him back to life. I had yet to learn that tears solve very few of life's problems, no matter how good they feel at times."

Nathaniel made a low sound of protest in his throat, stepping even closer. It would be so easy to fall into his arms, to surrender herself to the feelings she had for him, but she took a step back, holding up a hand. "Please, Nathaniel, I need to say this."

"You're the bird and I'm crushing you," Nathaniel interjected, a flare of anger entering his expression and then it was gone, an ephemeral emotion immediately hidden by his pride.

"No, I'm saying that we are both holding on too tightly. We need to understand why we feel the need to do so. Loving someone should make us stronger, not weaker, but we're so afraid of losing each other that we're losing part of ourselves. We're holding on so tightly that we are destroying the very thing we love."

"You mean _I _am," he said coldly, withdrawing from her in both body and mind. She could feel it, an abrupt sense of loss curling like a clenched fist around her heart.

Brushing impatiently at her tears, she felt her first flicker of anger wrapping around her fear. "No, Nathaniel. Stop insisting that you always wear the mantle of blame!"

Moving across the small room, Nathaniel began to dress, his movements quick and decisive, his back to her. Anya wanted to go to him, to rest her head against his chest and listen to the slow, steady rhythm of his heart. Instead, she forced herself to remain where she was, searching for words that he would understand, that would ease his pain, as well as her own.

"Do you remember the night you came downstairs to find me at my desk? You fell asleep in the chair as I was writing to Eddelbrek and Haddly, and I remember thinking that we had this wonderfully balanced relationship, that we weren't just lovers, but also friends and partners, that we strengthened the other. Now, everything has changed and I need to understand why."

He spun around to face her, incredulous. "Why? You ask why? Damn it, Anya, why do you think?"

Anya blinked in surprise at the depth of the anger that radiated from him, the bitterness in his tone as sharply cutting as a diamond on glass. Her need to comfort him, to reassure him, nearly choked her, and she took a hesitant step towards him only to have him step back, his face twisted, rebuffing any comfort she offered.

His voice was low and rough with emotion as he spoke again. "Why? Because we were attacked on the way to Denerim and all I could think about was protecting you, but I couldn't because of the fog. I couldn't even see you.

"Why? Because every time I close my eyes I remember finding you, broken and nearly dead, lying in a pool of blood, and thinking my world was crashing down on me. I bloody well won't lose another person in my life, especially not you."

He was right, she realized in surprise. The attack on their way to Denerim seemed to have been the catalyst. She lowered her eyes, hands clasped in front of her, words failing her. She cleared her throat and forced herself to meet his cold stare.

"And I have been so worried about losing you that I've allowed you to get away with disobeying my orders, an offense I would have punished any other person under my command for committing. I am so worried that I'll lose you, so concerned about making the same mistakes with you that I made with Anders, that I have abrogated my duty as commander and arlessa."

Fingers plucked restlessly at the sleeves of her wrapper, and she broke eye contact in favor of staring at the floor. Maker, what a mess they had made of their relationship. Recriminations hung self-righteously in the air like a thick, accusing fog. She straightened to her full height, and continued, sure she was pouring oil on a grease fire, yet unable to hold back her words as they rushed from her like a hot summer wind.

"We plunged into this relationship before either of us had healed properly, Nathaniel. Marrying you now would only exacerbate the mistake."

She watched Nathaniel run agitated fingers through his hair, his expression closed to her. The thought of losing him tightened the fist around her heart, temporarily robbing her of breath. Her mind - her thoughts - were spinning like a child's top, so quickly that she couldn't quite grasp one before it spun away again.

"Tell me, Anya, will either of us ever really recover?" he asked in a harsh whisper. "Will you ever really trust that I'm not Anders?"

Her anger broke over her like a spring storm, sudden and violent. "If you want me to trust that you aren't like Anders, stop disobeying me! You want to protect me and you can't, not if I'm to do my duty. You are holding me too tightly, Nathaniel, and I'm clutching at you like a drowning woman. It's like a riptide that just keeps pulling us back in and it has to stop."

As quickly as the storm had broken, it fled, leaving her shaking in its wake. Cold, implacable silence followed. All color seemed to drain from Nathaniel's face, leaving only the glitter of ice in his grey eyes. "Message received, Commander," he said, his voice little more than a growl.

"Nathaniel, I love you and I know you love me. Walking away is not the answer. We have to learn how to love each other with open hands, not clutching at each other out of fear and desperation. We have to learn how to let go if we're to have any hope of a future. We must learn from our mistakes."

Nathaniel, his posture stiff and his expression aloof, shook his head. "Just how do you propose we do that?"

For a moment, Anya was propelled back into the past, when she had first met the proud, angry man who now stood so coolly before her, his anger twisting inward. She'd had faith in him then, faith in herself. Where had it gone? Had she allowed Anders to take it from her? How could she reclaim it?

"I don't know. I only know we have to, somehow," she answered wearily.

A ragged laugh, short and sharp, came from Nathaniel. Forcing herself forward, she gave voice to the doubts that plagued a dark corner of her heart. "Do you want this to work?"

Hurt brightened his eyes and then was gone as quickly as the beat of a hummingbird's wing. She blinked and he once again wore a detached expression, erecting walls around himself even as she watched.

"Yes," he said with conviction. A brief flurry of relief tickled at her nerves.

"Do you still have faith in me?" she asked quietly.

"Do you?" he challenged.

Did she what? Have faith in herself? Have faith in him? In them? She limped over to him, hoping to convey by touch and word that she did, but there was doubt in her and she was suddenly afraid that if she truly let go of her fear, if she put her faith in them, individually and together, she would be left broken again. Her steps faltered as the truth slammed into her.

"I –"she began, her voice trailing into the abyss that had opened up at her feet.

With a low growl, he shook his head. "So we just walk away? Is that what you want?"

"No, that's not what I want! I want –" she started and again her voice trailed away. Exhaustion crept into her blood, slowing her ability to think.

"I want you as my wife, Anya. I have faith in you. I always have."

And then the exhaustion was swept away by another rush of adrenaline, fueled by anger. "You have faith in me as long as you are there to protect me, Nathaniel. That's not faith in _me_, it's faith in _you_!"

"And you? What do you have faith in, Anya?" he asked, overtones of hot anger almost hidden by a cold implacability.

She turned away from him, searching for an honest answer. "I have faith that we can get through this if we just learn to recognize our fears and let them go," she said, her voice thick with unshed tears that seemed to scald her throat.

"As long as you see me in the same light as Anders, I don't see how that's possible," he said resolutely, and, before she could summon up the courage to turn and face him, she heard the _click _of the door quietly closing behind him.

It was his quiet departure that gave freedom to her tears, and they burned hotly as they fell.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anders stared down at the nosegay of violets, trembling in his hand. He took a step back and then another. The need to grip Fenris's slender throat and choke the life out of him was so strong it brought forth the familiar bright blue pain in his head that would allow Vengeance to take control of him.

**No!**

The command shuddered through him and the bright blue pain eased so quickly that Anders doubted Bodahn was even aware of it. A brief flush of triumph came and went, leaving him bone-weary and slightly wary. It wasn't like Vengeance to accede to his commands, to have done so with such brevity heightened Anders's tension.

"Well, I won't bother her then," Anders said, forcing himself to give Bodahn a jaunty smile. "If she asks, tell her I went out for the evening," he added and made himself walk to the door.

Bodahn opened it for him and nodded. "As you say, serah," the dwarf said deferentially.

The evening air was cool against Anders's anger-warmed skin as he walked blindly along the familiar streets of Hightown, not at all sure where he was going. He stopped, glancing around him in the gathering gloom.

_**Of course Fenris was there, Anders. You moved too slowly. You have always thought of yourself as quite the lover, but, like so much else about you, it is a façade, carefully constructed to hide just how weak you truly are.**_

**Piss off. I don't need to be taunted by you, thank you very much.**

He held his breath, waiting for some kind of painful reprisal for his insolence, and, when none was forthcoming, he found his steps lighten appreciably. There was still time to get what he wanted from Margaret, as well as what he needed. He was content to wait. For now. And in the meantime, he was not going to continually give in to the demands of Vengeance.

He wasn't sure where his confidence and strength had come from but his steps were buoyant as he headed for the one place that allowed him to indulge himself, his smile widening. It was as if he had come upon a long lost friend and immediately bonded with him. It was a restoration of belief in himself and it was a heady feeling.

Entering the back door of The Blooming Rose, he instructed the servant to fetch Madame Lusine. The older woman, still remarkably youthful looking despite her age, gave him a saucy grin.

"Well, well, if it isn't our favorite healer. Come to take out your fees in trade?" she teased, running her slender fingers lightly up his arm. His stomach rebelled slightly at her flirtatious words, but he kept his smile in place.

"The usual," he agreed, moving to the back staircase. "And a bottle of Rivaini rum," he added.

_**Drinking is not permitted, Anders. I am willing to accept these other base needs of yours, and even enjoy them, but alcohol weakens your self-control.**_

**Thanks for that, Da. Now, do as I asked and piss off**.

He gloried in the newfound courage that had swept into him, wanting to shout victoriously at any who would listen as he willfully disobeyed and taunted Vengeance. Maker's breath, but it was a liberating experience. The hurt at finding Fenris at Margaret's home receded into a dark corner, and he smiled in anticipation as a man and woman entered the room, both wearing very little.

"Welcome back, Anders," the woman purred as she moved to the bed with sinuous grace.

He grinned, an almost feral stretch of lips, as he pulled her close. To the Void with Fenris and Margaret, he thought. He didn't need them yet, and, when he did, he knew it wouldn't be a problem. Confidence flowed into him, a power surging through his veins and flowing through his blood, filling him with a raw, hungry need.

A need the couple before him would be more than happy to sate.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Morning came too soon, its mocking rays of sunshine streaming into Nathaniel's room. He blinked and rolled over, his eyes squeezed shut against the glare. He flung the blankets back and stood up, rubbing his stubble and wondering just what in the Void had happened the previous night. One minute they were making love and the next he was fighting both Anya and his pride. And losing, Maker damn him. He splashed water on his face, but he was unable to wash away the truth of her words.

Frustration and hurt gave way to an empty gnawing in his gut. She had been right, and, instead of accepting that and working out a solution, he had slunk away like a spoiled boy. Twisting his hair into braids, the thought occurred to him that his faith was as fickle as the sea, and hers was little better. That acknowledgement led to the problem of what to do about it.

As soon as he'd finished dressing, he went in search of Anya, only to find a note in her stead. Gideon handed it to him with a grin before leaving him alone to peruse it.

_Nathaniel,_

_I have three things I need to share with you. _

_First and foremost is that I love you. That is as constant as the sunrise, which you missed, I might add._

_Secondly, we both need to regain our faith in ourselves. If we can do that, faith in the other will follow as naturally as the moon follows the sun, I'm sure of it. I am too stubborn to believe otherwise._

_Thirdly, I do not reject your proposal. When we have settled this matter of faith to both our satisfaction, I will gladly and happily become your wife, if you'll still have me. Especially if Naughty Nate serenades me again. Ah, a woman can wish, can't she? _

_Now, I am leaving the Wardens in your hands. I've taken Carver and Flynne to Soldier's Peak. Both men need to know about it, and I can perform Flynne's Joining there. I also want to discuss fortifying the keep with the Drydens. If war with Orlais is inevitable, it might prove invaluable. _

_I need you to go to Amaranthine and find out anything you can about Windhym. I want to know who he really is and what he was up to. _

_I'll be back at the Vigil in six days. Perhaps that will be enough time for both of us to untie the knots we've created in our relationship. It's a matter of finding our faith, and in that endeavor I find I have complete faith in the both of us._

_Your loving Anya_

A reluctant smile formed as he rubbed his chin and reread her letter. It was so natural and filled with the cheeky Anya he had fallen in love with, the one who had disappeared for so long. He found he was whistling softly as he saddled his horse.

They rode through the night, thanks to a bright, low-hanging moon. Six days seemed a lifetime, yet he understood the wisdom and necessity of time apart. His spirits continued to lift as they journeyed north.

Passing the ambush site in the silvery glow of moonlight, he felt a stirring of unease that raised the hair on the back of his neck. Both he and Gideon spurred their horses on, galloping along the stretch of road without a word.

As they continued on, he found his thoughts becoming less complicated. Anya was strong enough to take care of herself. He knew that on an intellectual level. It was the emotional level that he had allowed to overcome his common sense. How did he rein that in? How could he open his hand and let go of her? How did he trust that she would come back to him unharmed?

It was a question he posed to Delilah a day later.

Delilah, glowing with health and happiness, handed baby Thomas to him before leading him into the kitchen. Despite the cook's remonstration that the kitchen was no place for the lady of the house, his sister rolled up her sleeves and began to prepare tea.

"You can't know what life holds in store for you, Nate. Would you have imagined my life turning out the way it has? A shopkeeper for a husband and Amaranthine to run? Life takes such twists and turns and all one can do is follow one's heart and hope for the best. _You _need to learn to appreciate the good times while you can; they're what carry you through the bad times."

"Easy words, Del, but I'm not like you."

"No, you were always the gloomy one in the family. You were always willing to take the responsibility onto your own shoulders when you shouldn't have. If you want to feel responsible for the lives of those under your command, I applaud you. But thinking you can protect and manage everyone else's lives? Futile and wasteful."

Nathaniel frowned, bouncing Thomas on his lap, listening to his nephew giggle and coo. "Are _you_ happy, Sister? I mean, deep down happy? You could have married a noble, a highly-placed one at that, and lived a different life. I should have been there see that –"

"Oh stow it, Nate! You couldn't have stopped Father even if you'd wanted to. He sent away anyone in his service who opposed him, except for Adria and Samuel. They were smart enough not to openly oppose him. Why you feel the need to take the weight of the world on your shoulders is beyond me."

Nathaniel, shifting his drooling nephew away from his now-damp chest, looked up, an eyebrow arched at her vehemence. "So I'll take that as a yes?" he asked with a smile tugging at his lips.

"Yes," she laughed, reaching for Thomas, but Nathaniel held on to his nephew, enjoying the weight of him resting in his arms.

"How do I let go of that weight? How do I let go of the guilt that puts it there?"

"Andraste's grace, Brother. You over-think everything," she laughed. "Just take a breath and drop the load. Just refuse to pick it up again."

She made it sound so easy. Just let it go and refuse to pick it up again, as if it were a sack of oats to be dropped and forgotten.

"Do you believe that Anya loves you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Do you love her?"

Nathaniel bit back his irritation at her questions. "Yes, of course," he repeated.

"Why do you love her?"

"What?" he asked, surprised by her question.

"I mean, why do you love her? What is it about her that makes you love her?" Delilah repeated, her smile encouraging.

"She's intelligent, strong, beautiful, resourceful…" he trailed off as the truth flooded into him. "And capable of taking care of herself," he finished quietly.

"So, let me get this straight, Nathaniel Howe," his sister began, handing Thomas a biscuit to teethe on. "You love Anya and you know she loves you. You know she is intelligent, strong, capable and resourceful," she continued, ticking points off on her finger as she spoke. "Yet somehow you don't have faith in your ability to take care of her or her ability to take care of herself? You can't wrap her in cotton swaddling and hope she never falls down. For one thing, she'd kill you, and for another she'd -"

"Suffocate," Nathaniel replied softly. "She tried to tell me that last night and I was too busy nursing my wounded pride to listen."

"Well, you did say she was intelligent," Delilah teased.

"And I'm a fool."

"I agree. I'm just surprised to hear you finally admit it."

Nathaniel's grin surprised him and a great swell of affection came over him. "You were always a mouthy little brat."

"And you were always a glum old soul," she retorted, taking her son away from him and kissing the top of Thomas's head.

He looked down at his hand and slowly uncurled it. He had to let Anya fly or he would suffocate her. He had to let go of his guilt or he would drive her away. Sitting in the kitchen, listening to his nephew's gurgling delight over his biscuit, Nathaniel felt a burden shift and drop away. He had been wrong to feel guilty about Del. She was happy and healthy, content in a way he had never witnessed as they were growing up. He was wrong to feel guilt about not being there for Anya. He might lose her, someday, but it wouldn't be because he had driven her off with his own insecurities and guilt. He would have to be reminded at times, he knew. But he believed in them both and knew that they would work it out.

Faith was found in the most unlikely of places, he decided as he basked in the warmth of his sister's kitchen.


	27. Reflections in a Broken Mirror

**A/N:** _I apologize for how long it's been since I updated. Holidays, company, and a stubborn muse conspired to keep me from updating.  
>This is one of those necessary filler chapters, so again, apologies.<br>My continued thanks to a super beta! Lisa, you keep me straight and your suggestions and direction are always incredibly helpful.  
><em>

**Reflections in a Broken Mirror**

Soldier's Peak was overflowing with Drydens, all of whom were there to celebrate a wedding, two birthdays and a betrothal, according to Levi Dryden. He apologized profusely as he sent people scurrying to do his bidding and Anya found herself smiling at the strapping blond man.

"Levi, there isn't any need to apologize. You've brought life back to this place and it's wonderful to see."

Flynne undertook his Joining two hours after their arrival. Anya had Levi prepare for the worst but Flynne was unconscious for less than an hour. When he did awake, he was ravenous and oddly cheerful. Relief danced in her, sending a bright smile to her lips.

"There is much you'll need to know about the Wardens, but I suspect you'd rather clean up and eat than discuss the Grey Wardens."

"Is your blood supposed to feel like it's on fire and encased in ice at the same time?" he asked, rubbing at his arms.

"Everyone's body reacts slightly differently, but that's an apt description. Give it time and your body will adjust."

Carver slapped Flynne on the back, sending the mage reeling forward. "Welcome to the Grey Wardens. You're going to eat like a farmhand."

Flynne's smile broke free as he looked first at Carver and then at Anya. The sorrow that hid just behind his blue eyes gave way to a flicker of surprise and something akin to hope. She recognized that look as she'd worn it herself at one time. He was beginning to understand the bonds of kinship among Wardens.

After they had settled into their rooms, Anya met Flynne and Carver at the stairs winding down to the main floor and the festivities. Stairs were always a daunting prospect for her, but the steeply twisting and narrow stairs of Soldier's Peak were enough to make her wish for her cane.

Flynne eyed her without the sympathy she was used to, and she was grateful for it. Instead, he gave her the cool, appraising stare of a healer. "Does it cause you pain?"

She raised a wry brow before rubbing her hip, which was a knot of protesting muscles. "Frequently."

"Yes, I would think so. Tell me what happened," he instructed, not unkindly.

As she explained, she heard Carver's low growl of anger. "I should have killed him when I had the chance," the young man ground out between clenched jaws.

"I'm relieved that you didn't. Had you done so, you'd not have been a Grey Warden and that would have been our loss."

Flynne was rubbing his chin, deep in thought. "Both bones in the lower leg as well as the thigh bone were broken?"

Pushing the painful memories away, Anya blinked and nodded. "Nathaniel set the bones as soon as he found me but that was nearly a full day after they were broken. A healing mage from the tower thought she could repair the damage by re-breaking the bones and better aligning them but she couldn't guarantee any improvement at all and there were risks involved so I gave that idea up."

"Circle training," Flynne said disdainfully with a shake of his head. "They ought to get out of that Tower once in awhile and do some field training. Breaking your bones won't make them grow and that's the problem. You lost, as near as I can figure, about three inches of bone because of the breaks. I can give you exercises, as well as a brace, that will help strengthen the muscles, but there is nothing else I can do, short of breaking your other leg just as severely and hoping that you have the same amount of bone loss. I don't recommend the latter, in case you were wondering," the mage added with a grin.

"Thank the Maker for that, but tell me about this brace, if you would?"

"The brace…I've used this method on two people with excellent results. An iron brace made to fit the length of your leg and force the muscles to re-grow in the proper alignment. As the muscles realign, so will your hip to a degree.

"Yes," he continued, tapping his chin with his forefinger in contemplation, "I'm sure that Mikhael fellow we met earlier could fashion just the thing. You'd have to wear it for several hours each day, or night, but it _will_ help and you won't have to wear it forever.

"If we can realign your muscles, you'll still have a limp but your muscles won't be constantly cramping. You'll also regain a bit of mobility - flexibility - and the limp will be less pronounced."

Anya sighed, looking down at her curved stance. "How long would I have to wear the brace?"

"That depends on how faithful you are about exercising. If you do them every day, in the morning and the evening, I'd guess about three to six months. If you don't, then don't bother wearing the brace either because it won't do any good. You have to commit to the regimen, even when I'm not there. Even in the field," he added quietly.

Hope that someone, somewhere, could correct her limp had clung to her tenaciously for months and now it slipped away, pulled free by the currents of reality. She blinked silently, before shrugging away the disappointment. She'd have to be content with less pain and, if she was lucky, a less noticable limp. "Are these exercises that you speak of easily done no matter where I am?"

"They are. All that's required is a flat surface and a willing spirit."

"I'll do the exercises and wear the brace if it will eventually relieve the pain. We'll speak with Mikhael after dinner," she said resolutely.

"Good. Now, pick-a-back on Carver and let's go eat. I don't know what that drink was that you gave me, but it made me hungry enough to eat an entire cow in one setting."

Pick-a-back? She would as lief be kissed by a genlock. Carver was blushing – a unique color not unlike red plums – and she hid her smile by ducking her head.

"She won't bite, and I believe that Warden Nathaniel has beaten you to the punch, Carver," Flynne added, his blue eyes alight with mischief.

Realization of how silly the entire thing was brought an answering spark of mischief to Anya. "I actually _do_ bite, Carver," she warned, grinning.

Carver, still blushing, mumbled, "Just don't tell Nathaniel," before bending his knees and holding his arms out to the sides. Her laughter escaped, despite her intentions to the contrary, and, as she stood behind Carver, she took note that even his ears were plum red.

She couldn't bring herself to do it, instead opting to send the others downstairs and follow at her slower pace, but the moments of teasing were a welcome diversion from her unhappy thoughts regarding Nathaniel and his accusation that she saw him in the same light as Anders. Did she? Was she so afraid of being hurt by him that she held back, waiting for the time when he betrayed her? Broke her, as Anders had done?

Staring at the ceiling in her darkened room several hours later, with only the glowing embers of the dying fire for light, she wondered if she would ever recover from the attack. Unable to sleep, she turned up the lamp and stood, moving to the fireplace and pushing at the embers with a poker. Physically, she would never be the same, couldn't be the same no matter how much she wished otherwise. Even now, after listening to Flynne and talking with Mikhael Dryden about a brace, she wondered if Celene's private healer might not be able to do more. She wondered if she shouldn't make the trip to Val Royeaux and seek his opinion.

She had never considered herself a vain woman, but the realization that she was concerned about her appearance snaked through her thoughts, winding around her subconscious like tendrils of ivy. She did care. And somehow the importance of her appearance had tangled up with her fear of trusting her heart to someone.

She limped to the looking glass and stared ruthlessly at her reflection, something she usually avoided. Pulling her night-dress off, she looked with uncompromising eyes at the woman who returned her determined gaze.

Frowning, she took stock of the crooked hip and the long, puckered scar that ran down the length of her thigh. Another set of puckered scars along her shin were a deep pink, hard and unyielding to her touch. Her frown deepened and her eyes closed against the truth. She was hideously _flawed_, and no amount of denial would change that fact.

How could Nathaniel stand to look at her? And why would he? How long before he saw past his lust to the grotesque twist in her hip and the ragged scars that marred her body now? How long before he realized how much better he could do?

She turned away from the mirror, searching for her night-dress, to cover up her repulsive scars…

"_How does a warrior manage to keep her skin so soft?" Anders asked, his fingers brushing with languid strokes along her skin. _

"_I dodge a great deal when fighting and use emollients made especially for Celene," she replied with a teasing smile._

"_You've never struck me as a woman who cares about her appearance," he responded, bending to drop soft kisses along her shoulder. _

"_All women care about their appearance, Anders, and if a woman tells you differently, she is not being honest, either with herself or others. Because I avoid frivolous dresses and girlish pursuits doesn't mean I'm oblivious to my appearance."_

"_Ah, another secret I can tuck away for future use. My nefarious plan to winnow out all your deepest secrets is finally coming to fruition," he said around a grin._

"_Tell me, Anders the Vain, would you really care about me were I to be scarred?"_

_She propped herself up on her elbow, staring at him and he blinked, looking above her left shoulder. "Looks don't matter a whit, lovely lady."_

_But she saw it in his refusal to look at her, in the way his eyes slid away. Appearances _did_ matter, and a jarring note of anger crept into her, washing away the tenderness inside. She was a warrior, she took the brunt of attacks, and the likelihood of her obtaining a multitude of scars was high. She had any number of nicks and small silver scars, softened by age and demulcents, but she had no doubt that she would have worse scars in time. Would he love her less if she did? _

_Rolling over, she reached for her wrapper, slipping it on before sliding out of bed and padding to the door. She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder at her mage, who wore an appreciative gleam in his eye. "You are beautiful, Anya," he said, a note of proprietary pride in his voice. She stiffened and glanced down at her scarred knuckles._

"_No, Anders. I am a warrior," she replied; a warning. But to whom? She resolutely pushed that thought away. For now she would enjoy Anders but keep her heart her own…_

The irony that Anders had, in fact, given her the worst of her scars, burst over her like a storm-driven wave. Laughter caught at her throat, pungent with bitterness. A voice, deep inside her, spoke against the riptide, reminding her just how different Nathaniel was. He wasn't Anders, she reminded herself, a litany in her head that silenced her other thoughts. She forced herself to continue looking in the mirror, to accept each flaw and each imperfection but it took an enormous effort.

Even if the physical scars didn't matter to him, the constant reminder of what Anders had done was impossible to escape. She scrubbed at her face and then closed her eyes. Somehow she had to get past the physical scars but to do that, she understood that she'd need to recover from the deeper scars. She had to trust herself if she had any hope of learning to trust in Nathaniel's love.

But how? How could she believe in herself when every day, in a thousand ways, she was reminded of everything that was wrong with her? Superficially, she had accepted her new limitations. Superficially, she believed in herself and trusted herself. But underneath was the truth, as stark as a winter landscape. She hadn't given Nathaniel a chance, but even more, she hadn't given herself a chance, to recover. Somehow she had to find a way to do so.

She would start with the brace and exercises, and continue practicing her archery and daggers. For nearly a year she had been afraid to let herself believe without reservation. It was time that fear was put to rest.

She needed to demonstrate, to herself and to Nathaniel, that she _knew_ he wasn't Anders, that she trusted him. Logically she knew that, they were as different as the dawn is from the dusk, but her reaction to him had to change.

With a tired but resolute smile, Anya turned from the mirror, and once again curled up in the bed, made too large without Nathaniel's body beside her.

Hope sprung up among the questions; a flower in a desert. She loved Nathaniel, and, somehow she would learn to believe in herself again. If that meant she had to examine herself every day, she would do it. Sleep claimed her a short time later.

In the morning, she and Flynne went to talk with Mikhael about the brace. He promised to have it ready in a few hours. From there, they went to the practice yard, where Flynne demonstrated several stretching and bending routines that would, he claimed, lessen the ache.

Would it also lessen her revulsion when she looked at herself? Would it restore her belief in herself? But she knew that only she could do that and she bent and stretched, ignoring the pain in the hope that she would once again find her self-esteem.

**~~~oOo~~~**

After a three day absence, Margaret made her way through the dark tunnels that led from the estate to Anders's clinic. She had promised to restock his supply of poultices and potions, and to that end, she carried a small pack of ingredients, phials and various other items. She entered the clinic through the back door, placing the pack on the worktable.

Anders looked up from his patient, an elderly man with gout, and gave her a warm, welcoming grin. Margaret let out a closely held breath, smiling in return. She'd spent the past three days cleaning out her mother's room and visiting with the nobility, who were nervous about the Qunari, and the Arishok in particular. Many were truly terrified and planning trips to their country estates with the intention of avoiding what they saw as the inevitability of war.

How could Viscount Dumar not see it as well? It was a question she had asked Fenris over breakfast earlier that morning, after Anders had left for the clinic. Fenris continued to avoid Anders, his anger at the mage still strong. He wasn't ready to forgive Anders for the "implications and innuendo" the mage had spewed the night Margaret's mother had died. Margaret had no desire to be a peacemaker just yet.

Fenris had responded to her question with a compelling indictment of government and politics. "Those in power remain in power by feeding fears with one hand and assuaging them with the other," he'd responded, his voice carrying a strong tone of disgust.

Uncanny in its accuracy, she could only nod in agreement. It still surprised her how astute Fenris was, how little he missed. Now that he was able to read, he devoured books like a man left starving in his prison who'd suddenly been given access to food.

"You look pensive this morning, Margaret. Something on your mind?" Anders asked, breaking into her reverie with a surprisingly bright smile.

His brighter moods always brought a certain wariness to her; the feeling of a storm gathering energy in preparation of tearing open the sky. She found her answering smile was restrained by comparison.

"I'm just concerned about the tension in the air. Have the people here remarked upon it?"

She slipped into her large apron, scrubbed her hands at the ceramic basin and began mixing potions while Anders helped his patient to his feet. The clinic was surprisingly quiet and she could help but wonder if the citizens of Darktown and Lowtown were finding other places to be, as well.

"They don't have the luxury of worrying about events outside their purview; they're too busy trying to survive," Anders answered, his voice taking on a darker tone. "In case you haven't noticed," he added with a soupcon of venom.

He detested nobles and their wealth, she understood that, had known that from their first meeting, but his current tone made her want to box his ears. Blushing, she reflected dryly that he certainly didn't mind _her_ wealth when it came to mealtimes and a place to lay his head.

"Thank you for putting me in my place yet again, Anders. It's kind of you to take the trouble," she said with a healthy dose of asperity. "I'll be sure to let Bodahn know you won't be taking your meals with us any longer."

Anders's eyes widened, his expression startled by her crisp tone. "You're joking, right? Tell me you aren't going to make me crawl back into my rat-infested hovel because I don't share your politics," he said with such alarm that she bit back her laughter. How easily we fool ourselves, she thought dryly.

"Maker forbid," she breathed around her smile. "But I insist that you stop leaving your manifesto out in plain sight in the hope that some noble who comes round for tea will find it and take it to heart."

Anders's expression smoothly shifted from alarm to amusement. "You never know, it _could _happen."

Again, the transition from grim to cheery was almost dizzying and Margaret felt another jolt of unease tingle along her spine. Bending over the table, she concentrated on her work as her fellow mage set about cleaning the clinic.

She looked down at the table, surprised to find that the potions were neatly corked in their phials. She conjured up a flame and sealed the small bottles. Years at her father's elbow learning alchemy gave her a true appreciation of the art, and she enjoyed making potions and poultices. She'd been so engrossed in her work that time had slipped away from her.

"So, what will you do if the Arishok demands we convert to the Qun?" Anders asked as he locked up the clinic. She wasn't entirely sure he was teasing her as his voice had an odd edge to it that awakened her earlier unease.

"Tell him to go to the Void, a place which he doesn't believe in, I might add."

Anders chuckled. "How do you know that?"

Margaret shrugged. "He seems to have a need to confide in someone, and, for reasons I have yet to understand, he's chosen me."

She felt Anders's keen stare focus on her and she tried to ignore his look of disbelief. "He says I have some infinitesimal amount of honor for a Basra, and," she continued, holding her hand up, "before you ask, I have no idea what that means or whether it is good or bad. Although judging by his tone it's not a compliment."

They entered the darkened tunnel that led to the wine cellar. Soft light illuminated their way as Anders created a wisp. "We make a good team, Hawke."

She stumbled on the worn floor of the tunnel and clutched at the wall to steady herself. "No, Anders, we don't. We'd be at each other's throats in no time."

"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence."

He was offended, she heard it in his truculent tone, for all that he tried to laugh it off. "Anders, you know I'm right. It doesn't have anything to do with you specifically, we're just…_different_."

"Yes, for one thing, I actually _care_ about the mages' plight."

Coldness had crept into his tone and it chilled her spine. "I _do_ care, Anders, but militant behavior and acts of terrorism only serve to prove the Chantry correct. And," she added, trying to keep her tone even and non-confrontational, "we have had this discussion many times."

They had reached the midway point, equidistant from home and clinic. Shadows leaped on the walls around her, distorted reflections of themselves. Her anger with herself gave way to a startlingly clear awareness of just how alone she was with Anders.

She gripped her hands tightly together, willing them to stop shaking. Fear of a mage that she felt sorry for? That she oft times pitied? Forcing herself to look into Anders's eyes, she saw herself reflected in them as his wisp flared brightly. Her breath caught as her heart fluttered anxiously.

"You look terrified, Margaret," Anders complained, his voice sad and filled with a wistfulness that touched her fear and made it dissolve.

"Do I?" she asked, her voice a whisper. She cleared her throat. "Ever since the Deep Roads, I've hated tunnels and dark passageways," she lied quietly.

"Well, I can understand that. I never cared for them myself."

Willing her legs to move, she lurched, rocked, steadied herself and continued towards the mansion, trying not to give in to the need to run. Her thoughts were a confused jumble and she wanted distance to sort them out. A part of her wanted to protect Anders, especially from himself, because he seemed so fragile. A part of her wanted to exile him from the mansion, from her life. A part of her wanted to demand he march back to Amaranthine and turn himself in.

She blinked, remembering Anya's expression as she'd explained who she was and what had happened. Margaret reminded herself, as she hurried homeward, that Anders was not entirely responsible for Anya's injuries, that he housed a spirit that had overpowered him in fear of being captured. She glanced over her shoulder at Anders, his face pale in the glow of his wisp, his expression sorrowful. She blinked away the fear and only the pity remained. She was too soft-hearted, or so she'd been told.

Maybe, she reflected, she could help him find a measure of peace and he would let go of his need to right all the wrongs suffered by mages. And maybe, she thought wryly, stepping gratefully into the bright kitchen of the mansion, pigs would learn to fly.

She was surprised to find Seneschal Bran waiting for her in her study.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Leaving his sister's estate, Nathaniel made his way through the narrow back alleys of Amaranthine in search of Windhym's home. The Vigil's messenger-turned-spy had already sailed from Denerim, and Nathaniel doubted he'd ever return. There was a part of him, that dark part he seldom acknowledged, that hoped he would because Nathaniel would happily make it the last thing he ever did.

After stopping at several stalls in the market square and inquiring after Windhym, he discovered the man had lived in a small cottage off the square. Reaching fingers into his hair, he removed his pick and torsion wrench before glancing around to make sure no one was watching him. The flimsy lock was easily picked, and Nathaniel eased himself into the shadowed room, immediately assuming a defensive posture as he quickly assessed his surroundings.

It was a small, simple cottage with two rooms and a great deal of dust. As Nathaniel searched the sparsely furnished rooms, he discovered a small vial, a note that was in some sort of code, or a language he'd never seen before, and two sovereigns minted in Nevarra, judging by the marks and design. He pocketed the items and performed a second sweep of the place before quietly slipping out into the alley.

"Ho there! You a friend of Windy's?"

Nathaniel spun on the balls of his feet, already reaching for the dagger tucked into his belt. The man, a local he recognized from the Crown and Lion, blinked owlishly. "Master Howe?" the man asked, his tone reflecting his shock.

Searching for the man's name, Nathaniel let a relaxed smile curve his lips, though he felt far from happy to see the man. Still, he'd been taught at a very early age how to take advantage of an unexpected opening.

"Pothwan, right?" he asked, forcing himself to relax his stance.

"Aye, ser. Didn't know you were acquainted with Windhym, Master Howe."

"I'm not, really. He's one of our messengers. Are you two friends?"

"Not friends, but we share a pint or two on occasion."

"Any idea where he is? I wanted to send him on a courier run but can't seem to find him."

"Usually, Lieutenant Harker comes to fetch him," the man said, suspicion beginning to creep into his voice.

"Harker? Are you sure?"

"Of course I am. I may drink a bit, now and again, but that doesn't make me blind or stupid," the man said indignantly.

"No, of course not. I apologize," Nathaniel replied, hoping his voice contained the right amount of contrition to assuage the man.

Harker wouldn't have been sent to fetch a courier: that was a job given to stable hands and privates. Impatience stirred in his blood and he took a step forward. "How often do you see Harker come round?"

"Two or three times a week. Funny thing, that. He'll stay for near half an hour before he leaves again. Windy always has coin to spare after a visit, that's a surety."

Reaching into his pocket, Nathaniel extracted several silver coins and passed them to a wary Pothwan. "Thank you, Pothwan. I would appreciate it if you kept my visit a secret."

The man took the coins and looked at Nathaniel with intelligent brown eyes. "I know you're not your da, Master Howe. You're a right honorable man. I'll hold my tongue and there's no need to pay for it," he said with quiet dignity.

"I'm paying you for keeping an eye on the place. If anyone else comes to _visit _let me know."

Riding out of Amaranthine, Nathaniel wondered just how many people were conspiring and just what they were conspiring to do. The more they uncovered, the deeper the mystery became until it was like a reflection in a broken mirror: so distorted it was impossible to decipher.

The thought made him spur his horse. Harker had some answers to provide and Nathaniel was more than willing to use any means necessary to get those answers.

Harker was nowhere to be found.


	28. Prisons of Our Own Devising

**A/N:** _Another filler chapter as people move into their respective positions for the next part of the story. _

_Lisa, I missed you, and am delighted to have you back! Your wonderful touch always clarifies my ramblings._

**Prisons Of Our Own Devising**

"_You _are_ free, Anders. How can you not see that?" _

_Anders reached out and brushed the dark red strands of hair from Anya's face. She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist, her expression earnest. She really didn't understand at all. The knowledge rested heavily in him. How could she know? She'd lived her life able to choose what she wanted, a pampered Orlesian noble. _

"_I will never be free, love. I've only exchanged one prison for another by joining the Wardens."_

_He hadn't intended for his words to wound her. In truth, he hadn't meant to speak them at all, but her romantic idealism sometimes blinded her to reality. She had run off to join the Grey Wardens in defiance of her mother's desires for a prestigious marriage. It was only natural that she would see his escape from the Tower and induction into the Grey Wardens in a similar way. He sighed, tamping down his impatience as he strove for a lighter tone. Smiling at her, he once more brushed the strands of hair away from her face._

_At times, he felt as if he was walking on the edge of a cliff: one wrong step would send him plummeting down into the darkness. Now was one of those times, and raw panic pushed aside his anger momentarily. He found himself clinging to Anya in those moments, drawing strength from her. It was only when she shifted and sighed that he realized he was holding her as tightly as a drowning man clings to his rescuer. He loosened his hold on her._

_She freed herself from his hold. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you're afraid of happiness. It's almost as if you don't _want_ to be happy. Perhaps on the surface, yes, but deep down I think you're afraid to believe in it."_

_She leaned forward, the sweep of her hair a silken curtain that hid her expression, but he didn't need to see it to know she was pulling away from his dark mood. He shook his head, compelling his muscles to relax. He didn't want to face the bleakness of his future without her by his side, yet he seemed intent on pushing her away._

_He loved her. He was sure of that. Yet, her naïve romanticism drove him to that brink, that edge of the abyss that he teetered on in those panicked moments when falling, and failing seemed inevitable. How could she believe he was free? How could she believe she was, for that matter? For all her brilliant strategies during the battles of Amaranthine and the Vigil, she was oddly innocent at times. She was a prisoner of the Grey Wardens and the fate of an early death, no children and a life spent in the grimmest of places. How was her life not a prison? Or his, for that matter. He bit back a bitter laugh. _

_Blinking, he refocused his thoughts. Anya was sliding off the bed, her long legs a pale ivory in the low lighting. She was young and beautiful, unmarred by the violence of their battles with the darkspawn, and she adored him. What _was_ he so afraid of? Why couldn't he let go of his fears and just enjoy the time they had? _

_Slipping her tunic over her head, she spoke, her words muffled and made mellow by the material. "You're afraid if you let go of your fear that you'll fall in love with me, and you see that as a prison, too." _

_Her smile, as her head emerged from the tunic, was soft and sad, with a hint of pity in it. His heart twisted and he pulled her into his arms. _Yes! You represent everything I shouldn't want and can't have!_ His mind screamed those words at him and they reverberated in his other thoughts…a great shuddering truth that burned within him. _

_He settled her head under his chin, breathing deeply in the hope of regaining his equilibrium. "Don't be silly, Annie," he grinned easily, sidestepping her unnervingly accurate statement. "You know I care about you."_

_Even to him, the words sounded weak and placating. She shrugged out of his arms and her face wore that sad, soft smile again. She wanted to believe in him, almost as badly as he wanted to believe in himself. Tilting her head, she studied him with a grim blue gaze._

"_Someday you will regret what you could have had but were afraid to grasp." The words fell between them, spoken without recrimination, but rather in resignation, and that was worse, somehow._

"_I know," he whispered at her retreating back. "Maker, I know."_

Anders blinked, the memories retreating in the filtered sunlight streaming through the windows. He looked across at the red-haired whore sleeping deeply, curled around the blond male who'd accompanied her. The man stirred, opening an eye and grinning at Anders. The resemblance didn't seem nearly so striking in the harsh morning light as it had in the soft glow of lamplight the night before. Bile rose and he swallowed loudly as he struggled into his clothes. He tossed some gold coins onto the table near the door on his way out.

_You do her a grave injustice, Anders._

"You know nothing about it, Justice, so save your lecture," Anders muttered aloud as he hurried along the street, breathing deeply of the morning air. He wanted nothing more than to scrub his skin with lye soap, and to keep scrubbing until the filth that seemed to cling to him was gone.

_I know she gave you her heart and you continue to break it even now. I have no need of further information_.

Anger surged hotly in Anders as he strode along the nearly deserted streets of the Red Lantern district. "I freed you from your prison, I freed us both," he defended, his voice low and grim, but the words mocked him.

A bird sang a jaunty morning greeting as it passed overhead, and Anders looked up, stumbling to a stop. The illusion of his life crashed into his reality. The prison he had traded Anya for was one he would never be able to escape from. The irony washed over him with the intensity of a storm-driven wave.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Sunlight filtered through the narrow windows that were set high on the wall. Anya flung an arm over her eyes, groaning at the constant tug of muscles unused to their current position. She sat up with another groan and a great deal of effort.

Flynne was obviously trying to kill her. There could be no other explanation for the iron cage around her leg, tied with leather straps from the ankle all the way up to the top of her thigh. It was hinged at the knee, allowing her some freedom of movement, but it was heavy and awkward. It was a torture device, she was convinced of it. She struggled with the leather ties and then eased her leg out of its iron confines. She grabbed her recalcitrant limb and swung it over the edge of the bed, her good leg following with disheartening ease.

How in the Maker's name was she going to manage three to six months of the contraption she now called the Iron Crucible? That she'd managed to sleep at all was a miracle and now she rested her feet gingerly on the floor before pushing herself upright.

Somehow, she'd expected instant results and not finding them made her feel as though she'd failed a test of some kind. Chiding herself, she limped to the washstand and began her morning ablutions. What would Nathaniel make of it, she wondered? Would he see it as one more foolish attempt at healing herself of something that went beyond the physical scarring? Would he be repulsed by it?

Andraste's Grace, it didn't matter! She slammed her silver-handled brush onto the washstand, suddenly furious with herself for pandering to such demoralizing thoughts. She would never break free of Anders if she didn't let go of the self-pity and the foolish notion that her life would ever be the same again.

She had captured that feeling briefly - the liberating acceptance of all that had happened and all the heady promises that life still offered - but it was such a fleeting creature; gossamer wings of reality that beat against the dreams and hopes that still bound her to another life.

The future would never reveal itself if she stayed planted so firmly in the past, or in a field of regrets. She made her way downstairs and sat in surprising solitude in the dining hall. The entire Dryden clan seemed elsewhere and she accepted the silence gratefully.

Flynne and Carver were waiting for her in the stables. Levi Dryden came out of the keep to say his farewells as Anya tied the Iron Crucible onto the back of her horse.

"Look for the troops to arrive within the week, Levi. Until then, keep a lookout in the tower. If soldiers approach who aren't flying our colors, close the steel gates into the tunnels and send someone to us via the north wall," she instructed the lanky tradesman.

"Well, now, Commander Annie, I know all of that. I won't let anything happen to Warden's Keep, that's a Dryden promise," Levi said, his exuberant voice booming in the quiet stable.

"I suspect you have a network of family members throughout Ferelden that keep you better informed than most of us. Still, I wouldn't want anything to happen to any of you here," she answered, guiding her horse out of the stable.

Levi shook his head. "We Drydens are tough. No need to worry, Commander Annie," he boasted with a hearty wave as Anya and her Wardens entered the tunnels leading away from Soldier's Peak.

Anya had learned the shortest route through the tunnels, knew the secret panels of stone that parted when the pulleys were activated, and the hidden passages that shortened the trek, so it took them less than twenty minutes to make their way out of the tunnels and into the bright sunshine.

After the dank, musty tunnels, lit only by the bare minimum of flickering, oil-soaked torches, the sun's warmth on her skin felt like a benediction from the Maker. She raised her face and breathed in the sweetly-scented air. Leaves rustled in a murmuring wind as the gentle caress of the warmth of the day seeped into her bones. Standing in a bright shaft of sunlight, she had a blinding flash of insight. Freedom must feel the same way. Had Anders experienced such emotions with each escape? She stumbled at the thought, her breath catching painfully.

He had once accused her of not understanding just how fragile freedom was, how indefatigable he would be in maintaining his. As understanding flowed into her, she blinked, looking at the two men who accompanied her, seeing their own battles clearly for the first time.

Flynne had fought for his freedom his entire adult life, fearing the arrival of templars who would take that freedom from him. He spent every day in a prison as harsh and unforgiving as any dreamt up by the templars and Chantry, but with the illusion of choice, of freedom. Was he any freer now that he was a Warden and no longer had to hide the fact that he was a mage?

Beside Flynne, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at something the mage had said, Carver glanced over at her and flashed a brilliant smile. She was amazed at how relaxed and happy the young man seemed. It was, she had no doubt, the fact that he was finally free of his sister's shadow, a prison no less damning than one made of thick walls and iron bars. Was he as free as he believed himself to be? She hoped so.

Her thoughts flickered to Anders. He had given his freedom away because he hadn't accepted that he was as free as any mortal could be. Life dictated certain prisons, if one looked at them that way. True freedom was the absence of fear and regret, she realized, wondering if he had any idea what he had thrown away. Yet, she could not be angry with him because he had given her freedom of a different kind; the freedom to love again, to give herself freely to Nathaniel.

Feeling the tension in her shoulders drop away, she straightened to her full height and grinned at her Wardens. "Last one to the Hog's Breath buys the first round of ale!" she called as she pulled herself into the saddle and dug in her heels.

She heard Flynne's yell of surprise and she cast a quick glance behind her to see both men in pursuit, yelling at each other as they tried to overtake her. Her laughter caught on the wind and sailed behind her as she leaned low against her horse's neck.

Flynne, rubbing a sore backside, bought their first round of ale. "Had I known the bloody tavern was a six hour ride, I'd have damned you to the Maker before accepting your challenge," he grumbled good-naturedly.

"And if I'd known that Maker-damned Iron Crucible was going to be such agony, I'd have left you in the care of Levi Dryden and his family."

"Maker forefend," he replied with a grimace. "Each time I was convinced I'd met every last Dryden, another popped out of the nowhere and into the here. They're all wonderful, boisterous, happy people, but Andraste's Arse, they are legion!"

Anya, thinking of her own family, both the Wardens and the Carons, smiled, feeling wistful and nostalgic.

"Come on, Magey, don't tell me you're afraid of a few Drydens," Carver jibed, poking the mage on the arm.

"Magey? Seriously? Listen, you big, lumbering lummox, I have a name and it isn't Magey."

"Lummox? That's the best you can do? I'm really disappointed, you prattling little prig."

Their good-natured bickering flowed over her like a warm breeze, and the smile that rested on her lips was bright with unexpected happiness. There was so much to do but the trip to Soldier's Peak had brought a deeper sense of peace and understanding than she had anticipated and she knew that the future held great things for her, should she be willing to let go of her fears and insecurities.

She believed she was ready to do just that.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Rolling over, Margaret flung an arm over her eyes to block out the bright sunshine intent on disturbing her sleep. The day ahead promised to be long and unpleasant; she felt no compunction to begin it. Closing her eyes, she drifted in the hazy place between waking and sleeping, recalling the night before.

She could still smell the musky scent of Fenris on the pillow beside her, could still feel the warmth of his touch on her skin, for all that he had left in the deepest part of the night. She wondered if he would ever consent to spending an entire night with her, of letting the world see that they loved each other. That seemed highly unlikely and she smiled as she pushed the covers aside and rose.

A yawn overtook her smile, and she stretched, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles. The arrival of the Viscount's mouthpiece the night before had been an unwelcome surprise, and she'd been sure that Fenris would turn around and march out of the estate without a backward glance. That he had, instead, consented to stay for the meeting with Seneschal Bran was a huge step, and she closed her eyes, her smile widening at the look of fear hastily covered by polite indifference that had crossed the seneschal's face when Fenris had entered the study at her side.

They were set to hike out to the Wounded Coast in search of Saemus Dumar, who had once again defied his father to go in search of freedom, and a life without constraints. He'd sworn to join the Qun when he'd finished his sabbatical, an act that would set Kirkwall on its respective ear. Or so claimed Viscount Dumar, and his mouthpiece, Seneschal Bran. Margaret wasn't convinced of that and felt that Dumar was merely afraid of the political fallout.

The Arishok, for all his protestations to the contrary, wouldn't mind having Saemus Dumar as a Viddathari, she was sure. The leader of the Qunari presence in Kirkwall was their first stop in their search for Saemus, on the off chance that he had gone directly to the Qunari compound rather than the coast. Margaret doubted that was the case as it seemed as though Saemus was crying out for his father's attention. A jaunt to the coast to say good-bye to his friend who'd been murdered there, seemed just such an attention-seeking act. At least she hoped that was the case.

In assisting the viscount several years earlier, she had never suspected that she'd somehow become his confidant or assistant. She was smart enough to know that her position as a mage was precarious in a city-state practically run by templars, and that at any moment she could be rounded up and tossed into the Gallows, and the brutally run Circle of Magi. Now, as she dressed, she wondered if she hadn't inadvertently stepped into a different type of prison after all.

Stuffing items into her pack, she glanced longingly at her bed. They would be gone for several days, if they were lucky, and she was already growing soft in her new life. She stopped by her mother's room, resting a hand lightly on the closed door. Had Carver received the news about their mother's death yet? Would he come storming across the Waking Sea to hurl epithets at her? Would he break what little contact they had? Leaning forward, she rested her forehead against the cool wood.

The wounds were so easily opened, the grief and anguish bubbling just below the surface. Their parting conversation still echoed in the back of her head, rattling around like an unspoken accusation. If Carver came storming across the Waking Sea it would seem only right, somehow. She had not protected their mother as she had promised she would.

"Lady Margaret? Sorry to disturb you, but Serahs Varric and Fenris have arrived."

"Thank you, Bodahn. Have you seen Anders this morning?"

"No, not even at breakfast," Bodahn said, clearly puzzled by the man's absence.

The relief she felt only added to the growing knot of daily guilt she struggled with. She _should_ be concerned about Anders; he was in a very fragile and vulnerable state. She _should _be helping him find some sort of peace, not humming under her breath as her mood lightened because he wasn't there.

"Hey, Hawke, where's Blondie? Isn't he going with us?" Varric asked, hefting his pack onto his shoulder, carefully shifting Bianca out of the way.

"No, he is not," Fenris answered firmly, without a glance at her. She rolled her eyes and Varric grinned at her.

"I guess we know who's leading this trip," Varric snickered.

Fenris raised an eyebrow before assisting Margaret with her pack. "Margaret will lead, as she always does, Dwarf," he said seriously, oblivious to the authoritative tone of his voice, which caused Margaret and Varric to laugh.

"Right, I knew that. Why would I think the broody elf would lead? I mean, just because he's decided who is going on this little jaunt and who isn't…" Varric trailed off with a broad grin.

"You are a strange little man, Dwarf. I merely echoed Margaret's sentiments from last night," Fenris said in his defense, causing both Margaret and Varric to laugh again. Lifting his brow again, Fenris turned his gaze on Margaret.

"Am I truly that dictatorial?" he asked.

"And tyrannical," she added, placing a hand against his cheek, even knowing a public display of any kind embarrassed him. A slow blush seeped into Fenris's cheeks and his eyes dropped to the carpeted floor.

"I apologize," he said sincerely.

"Oh, Fenris, I'm teasing. Well, not entirely, but mostly," she added with another smile. She stroked his cheek with light fingers before she stepped back.

"Sebastian will meet us at the western stairs," she said, settling her pack more comfortably.

The day was crisp and cool, a light breeze toying with a few loose strands of her hair as they walked briskly along the cobblestoned street. With each step she took, she felt the guilt and grief receding. As the distance grew, it came to her that the estate her mother had so desperately wanted to reclaim was little more than a prison for her. The memories of a life lived in the house were not hers and would never be hers, no matter how long she lived there.

Not for the first time, she considered giving the mansion to Gamlen in exchange for the hovel that had been her home when they'd first arrived in Kirkwall. While she didn't miss the smell or the rough planked floors, or even the hard cot she'd called a bed, she missed the freedom of coming and going without concern for appearances. She missed the easy camaraderie of people in Lowtown. Not that Gamlen wanted anything to do with the Amell Estate. He had far too many bad memories of the place to ever do more than visit, occasionally spending the night if she pushed him hard enough to do so. No, the estate was hers, and for her mother's sake, she knew she couldn't sell it.

Glancing at Fenris, who was listening intently to Varric, she smiled softly. No doubt if she lived in Lowtown, Fenris would not be so concerned about staying the entire night, either. He worried far too much about her reputation, about whether he was good enough for her, about his lack of prospects. She sighed, realizing that he would never leave his shabby excuse for an estate. At least not until Danarius was dead and gone.

After a quick stop at the Qunari compound, where they were greeted with icy stares and implacable will, they continued on. The Arishok had not come out to greet them, as had become his custom, and that made Margaret unaccountably nervous. They were assured that Saemus was not in the compound, nor had he been for the past several days. Again, Margaret's nerves twisted and tightened.

Leaving the compound behind them, they quickened their steps, as if they were all relieved to be away from a place that seemed so oppressive. They didn't speak at all, and Margaret was lost in thought. It struck her, as they stopped to greet Sebastian a short time later, that she and Fenris were both hostages to the past. She hoped, given time, that she would be able to leave Kirkwall without the guilt overwhelming her and swallowing her whole. She also hoped, for Fenris's sake, that he would sever the hold that Danarius still had over him. She might as well hope that Anders could rid himself of the spirit that possessed him.

Was everyone subject to some form of prison, she wondered as Sebastian fell into step beside her. Was Sebastian a prisoner of the Chantry? Of Starkhaven? He seemed so sure of his role at times. Yet, at other times he seemed completely lost as to what he should do.

"Do you ever wish you had a different life?" she asked him as they left Kirkwall behind and struck out for the coastal approach.

"Aye, Margaret. Do you not wish the same, at times? But the Maker sets our path and we must walk it, no matter how many obstacles are set before us."

"That's oddly reassuring and frightening at the same time. I'd like to think we are creatures of free will and that our path is not set in stone, but rather in sand that blows and shifts constantly."

"Wow, Hawke, that's profound," Varric breathed. "And we do have free will. Well, except the wealthy, the tainted, the nobility, the possessed, members of the Chantry…" Varric paused and shrugged. "They all answer to someone else."

"I have seen what free will produces," Fenris interjected, his voice cold and hard. "Free will is an excuse men use in order to justify their most base and depraved actions."

"That's not free will, Fenris. That's a lust for power and a sickness that has nothing to do with free will at all," Margaret protested.

"Does it not? How interesting that a man would choose to treat a fellow man in such a manner without free will. Are you saying it is the will of the Maker that makes a man behave thusly?" Fenris replied.

She sighed. His hatred held him in a prison no less fortified than the mansion that imprisoned her. Would he ever realize that? Shrugging, she continued on, letting the conversation falter into silence as they walked.

Stopping for a midday meal several hours later, Sebastian offered a blessing and they ate in silence. Fenris, sitting at her side, offered her a drink from his waterskin. Their fingers brushed lightly against each other. The lyrium in his branding hummed softly to her and she felt the deep thrum in her blood as her magic responded. No matter how high the prison walls were that isolated each of them, somehow they had found each other and she glanced at Varric and Sebastian. For whatever reason, they had been brought together and become bound to each other by ties that ignored their individual prison walls. The thought brought a smile to her lips and a lightness to her step as they set off once again.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Well, find out when he was last seen!" Nathaniel growled, his anger held in check by the merest thread.

The captain nodded, bobbed, nodded again. He cleared his throat, his eyes darting left and right, clearly terrified of Nathaniel's wrath. Nathaniel scrubbed at his face and took a deep breath. Obviously the man had been mistreated by his father, but when would everyone realize that he was _not_ his father? That he could, and did, control his temper. Usually. His lips curled into a smile that felt unnatural, but seemed to reassure the captain.

"I will report back as soon as I know anything, my lord," the man said quickly and spun on his heel, marching quickly out of the office.

Anger limned Nathaniel's nerves, stretching them taut. He turned to Varel, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "That captain needs to be replaced with someone who isn't afraid of his own shadow."

Varel's iron-grey brows pulled together as he frowned. "It isn't a shadow the man is afraid of, Warden Nathaniel."

Nathaniel's eyebrow shot up at that. "The unspoken accusation is that he is afraid of me?"

"As you say."

"Damn the Maker's eyes, I am _not_ my father!" Nathaniel thundered.

Silence fell in the room following his outburst and he was stunned by not only his words, but his tone. Varel shook his head. "You are worried about Commander Anya, I know that, Nathaniel. As am I. But you won't find answers by bullying everyone. You know that. Your skill as an interrogator lies in your ability to remain calm and detached."

He didn't need Varel's words to remind him how out of control he'd become since discovering Harker and Windhym had met several times a week. But they steadied him and he was grateful for that. "You're right," he admitted sheepishly. "I'm better than that. What would make Harker turn? Any ideas?"

"He was a good soldier, loyal to Amaranthine. Whatever caused his betrayal must have been –" Varel began but Nathaniel cut him off.

"Loyal to Amaranthine or the former Arl of Amaranthine? Could he have been part of Bann Esmerelle's conspiracy to kill Anya when she first arrived?"

Varel's frown deepened. "He was loyal to the people of the arling. He had no love for Esmerelle or your father."

"Something caused his betrayal. If we knew what, it might lead us to who."

Anger gave way to frustration as Nathaniel stared out at the men mustering in the courtyard. Who was loyal? Who wasn't? Was Anya the target because she was the Arlessa of Amaranthine? An Orlesian? A Grey Warden? Were those intent on harming her loyal to Anora? To Rendon? Was it someone who had lost a loved one in a failed Joining? The more he tried to sort out the list of suspects, the longer the list became.

He was convinced it had something to do with Anora, Empress Celene, the group who had poisoned him, and Anya's family ties. Were the Nevarrans after something? And was Kirkwall just a convenient meeting place for whoever was involved? Maker knew it was easy enough to bring in a large army without notice down in Lowtown and Darktown.

Sighing to release the tension knotting his neck, he leaned against the cool windowpane. Without knowing who it was, he wondered how he could keep Anya safe,. or at least help her unravel the mystery. He'd realized almost too late that she didn't need his protection, she needed his trust, just as he needed hers.

The large studded gates slowly opened and Nathaniel felt his neck muscles forming into knots once more. It was too early for Anya to be returning. A runner clamored down the watchtower's twisting stairs and dashed across the courtyard. Nathaniel met him at the main door.

"Warden colors on the road," the runner wheezed, trying to catch his breath.

"Warden Sigrun's party or Commander Anya's?" Nathaniel asked sharply.

"A cart, ser. I reckon it's Warden Sigrun."

"How many traveling with her?"

"Looks to be the soldiers as went with her and Warden Sarhal, another in the cart and one other riding with the column. If I saw right, ser, he was a templar judging by the glare coming off his armor." There was a hint of a smirk in the young man's voice.

Disappointment lanced through Nathaniel, but he was already moving through the Vigil, issuing orders. At least they had a templar in their ranks again. Hopefully a trustworthy one. "Thank you, Arden. Stop by the kitchen before you return to your post."

"Thank you, Ser Warden," the runner said with a deferential bob.

It was another hour before the cart clattered to a stop in the courtyard. Sigrun jumped down, landing nimbly on her feet. Nathaniel, coming outside to greet them, squinted in the late afternoon sun. She looked as perky as ever and he realized he'd missed her.

She slanted a smile at him and then glanced around. "Where's the real boss?" she asked impudently.

"You're looking at him until the commander returns from Soldier's Peak," he informed her.

"What's she doing there? How was Denerim? What'd I miss this time?" she asked, her smile dimming at the news.

He greeted the new recruits - a newly harrowed mage named Chandal, and a tall, blonde templar named Caedmon – as warmly as he could, but his mind was still focused on the events of the past ten days. Instructing a servant to show the new recruits to their rooms, he explained that their Joining would be the following morning.

Once the Wardens were alone, he filled Sigrun and Sarhal in on the trip to Denerim and the defection of both Windhym and Harker. Relating the story made Nathaniel realize just how tangled the strands had become. It was entirely possible that more than one group was trying to kill Anya. That was not a reassuring thought.

A short time later, he strode out of his office, taking the stairs two at a time as he climbed up, past the living quarters and the attics, to step into the fresh air. Long, golden streaks of sun dappled the darkening violet sky as dusk settled over the Vigil. He stood on the upper rampart, watching the world slowly move into darkness. A lone eagle dipped a white-tipped wing at him, gliding on an updraft.

Reflecting on the day's events, he wondered when Anya would return and how he could keep her close without imprisoning her. It came to him, as he watched the eagle soar out of sight in the gathering gloom, that to keep her a prisoner would break her spirit. He would have to let her fly free if he had any hope of keeping her in his life.

He shivered as the wind rose, pushing leaves along the courtyard below and ruffling his hair. But he'd be Maker-damned if he'd let her travel without him again.


	29. Crossing the Bitter Divide

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for your wonderful beta skills and your friendship. _  
><em>Sorry for the delay in chapters. I won't bore you with reasons or excuses, but it feels good to be writing again. <em>

**Crossing the Bitter Divide **

The Vigil rose in the distance like an old, weathered friend. Spires and turrets, capped in rust-colored tiles that sat atop silvered stone, stretched up to greet a bright blue sky. Relief brought a grin to Anya's lips. It felt as if she'd been away for months. Was Sigrun back? Had she found recruits? Was the arling in good order? Had Gideon gone to the islands with a scouting party? Her heart and mind raced. Home and hearth and family waited.

"Last one to the Vigil buys the first round!" Anya cried, echoing her challenge from days earlier as she spurred her horse.

By little more than a length, Flynne won, his triumphant crow reverberating off the stone walls of the keep as he slipped out of the saddle. And then she was surrounded by her Wardens and her laughter added to the general cacophony as shouts and greetings were exchanged. Voices and smiles - and a sober Varel with his formal dignity – filled the courtyard.

Anya scanned the assemblage, her eyes settling finally on a lone figure. Nathaniel stood back, almost in shadow, grey eyes studying her, expression solemn. She flashed him a bright smile and then turned to hug Sigrun, but not before she saw him nod, a smile almost visible.

"Ancestor's ass, woman, what is that contraption?" Sigrun bleated, pointing at the leg brace tied to Anya's saddle. "Some weird chastity belt?" she added with a boisterous laugh. "Too late if it is," she snorted.

"It's an instrument of torture for impertinent Grey Wardens," Anya replied, winking at her dwarven friend.

"Guess it's a good thing I'm pert, never impertinent."

"You keep telling yourself that, Sigrun, and we may believe you one day."

Anya made her way through the throng to stand in front of Varel, who bowed slightly. "Commander, welcome home."

"Thank you, Varel. How've things been here? I'll expect a briefing in my office in thirty minutes."

She would much prefer to go upstairs, have a long soak in a hot tub and an even longer nap in her bed, but that wasn't possible. She cast a glance at Nathaniel, who was discussing something with Flynne. He looked over and caught her eye, a barely discernible smile flitting across his features, before he turned his attention to the mage again.

Making her way up the stairs, she automatically turned down the hall to her old rooms and it was only a deep chuckle that made her alter her course. "Nathaniel," she murmured softly, her heart and breath quickening. "You've oiled your leathers," she continued with a smile.

His arms pulled her close, and his breath ruffled her hair as he held her. "Anya," he answered, before tipping her chin up and capturing her lips with his.

They stood in silence, their bodies adjusting to each other once again and then made their way to their rooms, arm in arm. "Thirty minutes? You couldn't have said an hour or two?" he asked as they entered their chambers.

"My thought was to get it over with so that we'd have the rest of the day to catch up. Not one of my better plans, I'll admit," she added with a smile. Then, with an indrawn breath, she spoke again.

"Nathaniel, I have had time to think, and I –"

"Anya, I realized that I –" Nathaniel began in the same moment.

"You first," Anya urged, pulling Nathaniel to the small sitting area. They sat in the matching chairs placed before the fireplace, facing each other, and she felt unreasonably anxious in those few moments before Nathaniel began to speak.

"I've been too possessive of you, I see that. I don't want to own you, Anya, I just don't want to lose you," he explained, his voice low and far more emotional than she was used to hearing. Her nerves fell away as she reached across the small distance between them, taking his hand in hers and encouraging him to continue.

"I have waited a lifetime for you, or so it seems, but I understand you don't need an overprotective lover; you need a companion, an equal. I can't promise to change overnight, or even in a week or a month, but I can promise to _try_, and to love you with open hands. I'll need to be reminded occasionally, I have no doubt," he added with a dark smile. "I've lost enough in my life to guard what I still have. Del will attest to that."

She leaned closer, bridging the gap between them and raising her other hand to brush back his dark tumble of hair before allowing herself the pleasure of caressing his firm jaw with fingers tickled by his stubble. He closed his eyes briefly, leaning into her touch before straightening.

"Thank you, Nathaniel. I've discovered so many things about myself that I hardly know where to begin. You were right when you accused me of seeing you in the same light as I saw Anders, perhaps not in the way you meant it, but it was true enough. I'm sorry for that because you are not in the least like Anders.

"But I am so scarred…so flawed. I grew up in a culture that demands perfection in all aspects of life. I'm not who I once was, obviously, and there are times when I am terrified that you will see just how imperfect I am…how deformed. This fear of being broken even further comes in and takes control, making me irrationally angry and clingy one minute and aloof the next. It isn't your fault that I'm more vain than I realized, or that I'm a bigger coward than anyone believes me to be. I don't think I appreciated just how much damage Anders did, both physically and emotionally. Maybe now that I do, there's hope.

"I will try to let go of the fear, but sometimes you'll have to remind me that I may not look as I did before, but I'm still the same person, made stronger through all of this. I will try to trust you to be there when I fall, but I need to learn to rely on myself as well. I need to remember how to walk beside you and not lean so heavily on you in one breath and run from you in the next."

He came to kneel beside her chair, grey eyes searching. "I love you, Anya, and I don't see the imperfections that you see. I see only that you survived, and your scars remind me of how strong you are, how bravely you fought for your life. You are beautiful, not _despite_ your scars, but _because_ of them," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

She knew he believed his words; there was a fervency in his tone that brought peace to her, allowing her to exhale a breath held captive by anxiety. The chasm between them had been bridged, and for now, it was enough. Time would tell if they had both learned from their experiences.

A short time later, she sat at her desk, listening to Nathaniel's detailed account of recent events. Varel stood near her desk, hands clasped behind his back as he listened, although she sensed he'd already heard the information before.

"Harker? Truly? He seemed quite content here. Why would he and Windhym be working together? To what end?"

"More importantly, just how many groups are spying on you and why?" Varel interjected. "Are they separate or working for one common goal?"

"The Brotherhood of the Wolf is an expensive band of mercenaries. Were they after me or Pentaghast? I can't imagine why anyone would want to harm me or watch me, for that matter."

"It might have something to do with your family. You're all in the line of succession, aren't you?"

Anya chuckled at that. "The last time I was notified, I was thirty-seventh in line to the throne; my family would all have to die, as would a large number of aunts, uncles and cousins. I don't think that's what's going on. Perhaps they are agents of Cousin Etienne, who is actually a great-uncle, if memory serves. There are so many of us, it is just easier to call them cousins," she admitted with a wry smile.

"What of the islands and the pirates attacking Amaranthine's ships?" she continued, glancing at Varel.

"Warden Gideon and a squad of men are still scouting the area, Commander Anya. I expect their return within the next day or two."

"Any word from Teyrn Fergus?"

Nathaniel nodded, pointing to the pile of unread messages that were stacked with great precision on her desk. "They are arranged in order of receipt," he explained.

"You could have opened them, Nathaniel. Or you, Varel."

"Opened correspondence is in the stack on the left. Those were urgent matters regarding the Grey Wardens or the arling," Varel intoned.

Anya reached out and plucked the first letter from the stack, reading the sender's name with a sense of dread. Breaking the seal, she opened the letter and scanned the missive. Her heart sank and she felt the scalding heat of tears in the back of her throat.

"Andraste's grace," she whispered, setting the letter aside with shaking hands. "Fetch Carver, Varel. And a bottle of whiskey."

Nathaniel moved to her side, frowning. "What is it?"

"Leandra Hawke was murdered. Margaret has asked that we send Carver to her so she can give him the details."

"Will you be sending him?"

Anya rubbed her forehead with trembling fingers. No matter how often she had to relay such news to people, she never got used to it. Carver would be furious with himself, she had no doubt. He would also be devastated and was likely to pick a fight with someone, if she knew him at all.

"I need to go to Kirkwall to follow up on some leads. I'll accompany him. From there we'll be traveling to Val Royeaux. I need to speak with a number of people there, some of whom are, or were, good friends."

"Just the two of you?" Nathaniel asked, his voice carefully neutral. She looked at him and saw the struggle in him not to demand he go in her stead, or that he accompany them. Her lips twitched and she lowered her head for a minute so he wouldn't see her smile.

"No, not alone. I thought to bring Flynne with me, he's proven quite useful."

Continuing to watch him through the fringe of her eye-lashes, she saw his disappointment warring with his need to protect her, as well as his need to let her walk her own path. She almost smiled at the emotions flickering across his austere face, like a candle's flame caught in a breeze. Raising her head, she met his intent gaze.

"I'll need someone who is good at getting into places he ought not to be in, as well," she added, once again lowering her eyes to examine her desktop. "Of course, I can't keep taking the Second with me, or there's no point in having one."

"If there is a regulation that prevents you from having more than one Second, I'll resign," he said promptly.

"Nathaniel," she began, but he was already striding from her office.

"I never wanted to be your Second, anyway," he added over his shoulder. "I recommend Sigrun."

As Anya had also considered that very thing, she remained silent. It wasn't until he had returned to her office, resignation letter in hand, ink barely dry, that she continued.

"While I was at Soldier's Peak I sent a letter to King Alistair, recommending that the Howe family be reinstated as the ruling family of the arling. I advised him that the Grey Wardens will remain a strong presence in Ferelden, and that they should have a non-voting seat in the Landsmeet, reminding him that overseeing the arling represents a violation of the principles governing the neutrality of the Wardens.

"I've sent a copy to the First Warden, as well. There's a good chance that whoever my Second is will become the Warden Commander of Ferelden in the near future. Are you sure you want to resign?" she asked, smiling up at him.

"Why would you do that?" Nathaniel asked with quiet intensity.

"Because I am being used as a pawn in a political game that I refuse to play. Because, in addition to the manipulations and machinations of my cousin, I am being played by old friends, as well as the one group I was sure was incorruptible. And because I will play the Grand Game _my_ way, or not at all."

"Andraste's grace, Anya, you've made yourself an even bigger target for whoever it is that's after you."

She raised a brow, her smile still curving her lips upward. "Indeed? Why would I want to do that?" she agreed. "Certainly not to flush out those who are holding the strings in this puppet show."

The bravado of her statement fell away and she waited with a wariness she didn't want to feel, staring at her hands, now clasped and sitting on her desk with a will of their own. She expected him to argue with her, to demand she stop being so foolish.

"Why would you recommend a Howe become the arl or arlessa again?" he asked, fixing on the one thing she was sure he would ignore.

"Because the Howes are deserving of that title. By now the people of this arling, and Ferelden - especially the nobles - understand that your father acted on his own, and that you and Delilah are decent, honest people, worthy of reclaiming your legacy."

Nathaniel's grey eyes widened with a look of panic quickly replaced by one of implacability. "Del, yes, but not me."

"You don't think you've behaved in an honorable and worthy manner?" Anya asked with surprise that was edged with sadness.

Would he ever see himself as a noble man? A man of integrity? Or would he always wear the mantle of his dead father? Would he always live in the shadow of Rendon Howe? Sighing, she pushed back her chair and moved around the desk to stand before him. Now was not the time for that battle, but she spoke anyway.

"Nathaniel, you deserve to be the Arl of Amaranthine. You have been nothing _but _honorable, and you helped save the city of Amaranthine, as well as helping to kill the Architect. Or have you forgotten all that?" she asked softly, reaching out to caress his cheek. "You must be aware that the people of this arling respect you."

"We've had this discussion a time or two," he replied dryly. "We both know what the other will say by this point, so let's just drop it for now. Besides, this conversation is a bit premature. Alistair has no use for _any_ Howe. I don't foresee that changing because you want it to."

"We'll have several days at sea to discuss it further. Now, as my former Second, please find Sigrun and inform her of your resignation. Then send her here. But not too quickly, I want to speak with Carver, first."

She sat down and rubbed wearily at her forehead, where a headache was determined to take hold. Carver entered after a loud thump on her door, his long legs quickly crossing the room. He stood stiffly in front of her desk, eyes forward in the perfect posture of a subordinate soldier.

"Sit down, Carver. I am afraid I have some bad news."

**~~~oOo~~~**

"We'll head back tomorrow morning. There's no point in continuing to search for the boy if he doesn't want to be found."

Margaret's disappointment and frustration were mirrored in the expressions of her companions. Finally, Varric shrugged, his smile crinkling his eyes. "The 'boy' is almost twenty, Hawke. Chances are he took some of Daddy's gold and bought himself a _companion _for the week. We'll probably get back to Kirkwall and find he's already home."

They had spent a week on the Wounded Coast, searching for Saemus Dumar and finding nothing but bandits and Tal-Vashoth instead. They'd eluded some, killed others, and still found no trace of the viscount's son. With a grim smile, she looked at her companions and said, "What a waste of time and energy. It's almost as if someone wanted us out of the city, though I can't imagine why."

Sebastian's vivid blue eyes narrowed as he considered. "You have a great deal of influence in the political arena, Hawke. Perhaps it's someone who wanted a favor they knew you would oppose?"

Margaret laughed softly, without humor. "I am not that important, nor do I have the influence you think I do, Sebastian. Still, it's curious. If I find out it was a wild goose-chase, I'll be relentless in pursuing whoever it is that arranged it."

She stirred the bubbling stew, grimacing. Another night of rabbit stew with more flour than spice, more wild onion than potatoes. Maker, she missed the comforts of home and the hot, fragrant meals that were served regularly. Andraste's grace, she hadn't really thought that, had she? She was growing soft, living in Hightown, and the resentment that slept just below the surface began to awaken. She wondered what she could do with the Amell house, because she no longer had any desire to live in it.

Fenris gave snort of derision before speaking. "I am in agreement with Sebastian. The intrigues and maneuverings of the nobles in order to curry favor and prestige stop at nothing, including using other nobles to achieve such things," he said contemptuously. "Should you find the person responsible, consider permitting me to deliver your message of retribution."

Margaret smiled, humor finally filtering through the resentment and weariness. She lifted her eyes from the pot to glance up at Fenris, who wore his contempt for nobles like a brightly lit lantern.

"Yes, what a wonderful idea. Maybe we can plan a formal ball, invite them all over and you can go along the receiving line eviscerating anyone who even dares look shifty or dishonest," she teased, tossing him the last of the hardtack. He caught it with a graceful flick of his wrist, and, while the others laughed, he merely grunted softly, but his eyes softened.

"Besides, it's a welcome diversion in a way," she admitted honestly. "For all my grumbling, there is something oddly restful about being away from the city."

She discovered, as she sat down to eat the meager stew, that the guilt that gnawed with hungry fingers at her had receded, slipping into the shadows and giving her a respite. Glancing around at the others, she felt a wave of affection roll over her, through her. She leaned her head back, resting it against the gnarled trunk of the tree she sat beneath, breathing deeply. The scent of distant rain and salt water hung lightly in the air and the low roar of the surf as it met the shore was soporific. She felt warm and drowsy and content.

"Tell us a story, Varric?" she asked around a yawn. Fenris settled beside her, silent and watchful. She felt his fingers brush against her arm, but knew that he would not show any overt affection in front of the others and she would not push him to do so.

"Tame or wild?" the dwarf asked, grinning. He stroked his chin, where his stubble was beginning to look more like a beard, which he hated. "Hmph. With Choir Boy here, I'll make it tame. Don't want to be the cause of his heart failure."

Laughter filled the air and Sebastian had the grace to join in. "I knew a woman who went by the name of Blue Eyes. Damned if her eyes weren't the color of the sky in spring," he began, his voice low and evocative, nuanced in the way only a great storyteller could manage.

Her eyes closing, she let his words drift around her, not really hearing them. Carver would have received her message by now. Would he sail across the Waking Sea to tear into her? Would he even speak to her? Would he resent her for not coming in person to tell him? Why hadn't she done that? The answer slapped at her, once more stirring the guilt and resentment. I'm a coward, that's why, she castigated herself. But the distance between them was becoming insurmountable. She should have gone to Amaranthine and told him herself, rather than sending a message to his commander so that she could break the news.

The ocean's roar increased as the tide came in and she listened carefully, sure she could hear Carver's angry voice in every wave that hit the shore. The calm that had settled over her dissipated like morning fog, leaving her chilled and disquieted. Fenris leaned closer and whispered softly, "You are unwell or unhappy?"

She was startled by his perception and she turned her head to look at him in the gloom. His hair, a silver beacon against the night, caught her attention and she had an overpowering need to touch him, to ground herself in this life, in _this_ time, rather than the fear and antipathy that had so often guided her of late.

"Tired," she responded softly and felt his fingers curl around hers.

"Sleep. I shall keep watch tonight," he instructed and she let her eyes drift shut.

It would be so easy to abrogate her duties and return to Ferelden, to a life more suited to her than the one she had inherited by happenstance. But her mother's desire to make the Amell name, and, by proxy her father's name, something to be proud of again, prevented her from doing so. She would make both the Hawke and the Amell name something to be proud of and when that was accomplished, she would find a quieter life across the sea. A bitter laugh caught in her throat and she allowed Fenris's nearness to lull her into a deep sleep.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Banging his hand down on the table, Anders scowled at the dark-haired dwarf. "This is unacceptable! The sample is too small!"

Magic coursed in blue pulses from him, but the dwarf held his ground, seemingly indifferent to the demonstration of power. "I got what you asked for. If you needed a larger sample, you should have said so," he replied with a shrug. "Now pay up or I'll be forced to send my men after you and no amount of magic will save you."

Anger burned his blood. He wanted nothing more than to pick up the diminutive man and hurl him across the room; let his magic rip the man apart.

_**Do not be a fool, Anders. Your impatience will be your undoing. There is time enough to accomplish our goals**_.

**Bugger off, Vengeance. I don't need a lecture from you. And they aren't our goals, they're mine.**

_**I wonder how such a callow man managed so many escapes, but then, ultimately, they all failed, did they not?**_

Anders growled low in his throat, an animalistic sound that brought him up short. Was that what he was being reduced to? Did he have so little control over Vengeance or himself that he would kill without remorse simply because he didn't get exactly what he wanted? His magic flared and dimmed.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled a small bag of coins out and tossed it at the dwarf, watching with disgust as the avaricious little man counted it twice before nodding.

"It was _not_ a pleasure doing business with you. Don't contact us again," the man warned before turning and stomping out of the clinic.

Anders stared at the small amount of powder contained in the vial he held and slumped down on the bench. Months of waiting, preparing to study and replicate the gaatlok, now gone. The futility of it incensed him and for long moments he was unable to think at all.

It was obvious that he needed someone better at determining the formula than he was since there was so little powder available. There was someone he'd known - though the name escaped him - that had been an expert with chemicals and bombs. He rubbed at his forehead with shaking fingers, trying to remember.

_Even if you remember, you cannot possibly go back to Vigil's Keep, Anders. You will be captured and executed. _

**I can if I'm careful. I can wait in the city and send someone to fetch him. What was his name? Dwarfil? No, Dworkin. His brother was the Master Mason. Glavonak? He'd be very interested in this. You remember him, Justice**.

_Anders, this is most unwise. I urge you to reconsider this reckless proposal._

**It'll be fine, Justice**. **I'll go and be back in no time**.

_**You will not!**_

Blazing shards of pain ripped into him and he fell to his knees, clutching his head, incoherent pleas falling from his lips. Undulating waves of pain that seemed unending burned his thoughts and left him curled up on the floor, whimpering like a child.

"Damn you to the Void," he mumbled, weak tears leaking from behind closed lids.

_**We have invested too much time and effort in our work to risk it now, Anders. Going to Amaranthine is foolhardy. Did I not know you better, I would suspect you want to die and returning to Vigil's Keep is the easiest way to achieve it. Or do you still harbor feelings for the commander?**_

Anders swiped at his face with his sleeve. "Don't," he muttered angrily. "Don't you dare."

_**You are obviously overwrought. Your emotions are affecting your ability to think rationally. I suggest you get a good night's sleep.**_

Deflated, his anger and fear coalescing to form a hard knot in his stomach, Anders found the idea of sleep overpowering. He stripped and threw himself on the hard cot in the back room of the clinic, so tired he didn't even try to make his way back to the mansion. He was asleep the minute his head rested on the pillow, his last thoughts on how to get to the Vigil without attracting attention.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Nathaniel's hands curled into fists as they rested on his thighs. He watched Carver's reaction, ready to intervene if things got out of hand. Except that Anya would flay him if he _did_ intervene. Forcing his fingers to open again, he let the tension ease from his shoulders.

"I won't go back!" Carver shouted, leaping from his chair, which fell over from the force of his movements.

"Why not?" Anya asked, a frown knitting her brows.

"Why should I?" Carver countered, swinging around to face her. He was pale and his eyes were narrowed, his mouth tight. "Margaret's never needed me before, she won't need me now!" he added.

Anya rose, moving around her desk and quietly pouring a dram of whiskey into each glass. She handed one to each of the men, but left hers untouched. She took a step towards Carver, looking up at him with sympathy.

"Are you sure that she hasn't needed you? She's been forced to shoulder entirely too much responsibility for most of her life and she finds it difficult to let go of it, but that doesn't mean she doesn't need you."

"Bollocks!" the young Warden snarled, glaring down at her.

It was fear, Nathaniel realized. Carver was afraid to go to his sister. Was he afraid of rejection or his own reaction? Did he believe his sister was unworthy of the attempt or that he was? With a flash of awareness, he saw himself in Carver at that moment. So many times he'd chosen the least frightening path, only to discover it was often the most painful.

"Commander, a word in private?" Nathaniel said quietly.

"Now?" she asked, frowning at him.

"It's important," he assured her and moved to the small room adjacent to hers. "I understand what he's doing, Anya. Let me talk to him. You have no hope of convincing him to see his sister, but I think I may be able to get through to him."

Anya's frown eased, and she nodded once. "Use my office. I'll just wait here, in this little closet of a room," she finally replied with a wry smile.

He re-entered the room and went straight for his glass, gulping it down quickly. The fiery liquid spread warmth through him and he grinned. "She's a woman, Carver. Women need to talk about things. Men don't. They need to hit something, break a few heads, get drunk."

Carver frowned, gulping his whiskey down with a shiver. "She means well enough, I guess. But she doesn't have any idea what it was like, growing up with a perfect sister."

Nodding, Nathaniel splashed more whiskey into their glasses. "It's a miserable way to grow up, I know. Delilah was the perfect everything. No matter what I did, I always stayed in her shadow, two steps behind, and my father was happy to point it out at every turn."

Carver blinked. "Bann Delilah? She's your sister?"

With another nod, Nathaniel paced the room before returning to the desk. He shrugged nonchalantly. "So, don't see her. You'll still be going with us to Kirkwall, but nobody will force you into seeing your sister. I imagine she's taking it pretty hard, though. She doesn't have the Warden family to see her through it."

Carver's eyes narrowed again. "I know what you're trying to do and it won't work. Besides, she has plenty of friends around her."

"But none who know her as well as you do. Still, I won't force you, and neither will the commander. Just don't blame us if you come to regret it one day. Maker knows I have those kinds of regrets," he added, his voice suddenly harsh as he remembered his brother Thomas.

Silence settled between the two men as Nathaniel sat back down, leaving the whiskey bottle on the desk. "Dismissed," he added with quiet authority. "Unless you want to discuss your emotional state with the commander?"

"Maker's balls, no!" Carver exclaimed, setting his glass down with enough force that Nathaniel thought it might break. "I – well – thank you?" the young man asked and quickly strode from the room.

"You can come out now," Nathaniel called softly and the door opened with a quiet click.

"I'm not sure what you did, exactly, but at least he's calmed down a bit."

"I've given him something to think about. There's no need for him to decide if he'll see his sister right this minute. We have, as you pointed out earlier, several days at sea to work on his attitude. But, judging from my own experiences, it will take more than a few days to change that."

Anya chuckled. "You see that, do you?" she teased.

He felt a ripple of laughter as his tension eased. Anya came to stand beside his chair, resting light fingers against his scalp. He closed his eyes, the last remnants of dark memories fading as her fingers sifted through his hair. Moments passed in companionable silence, finally broken by a staccato rap on her door.

Clearing her throat, Anya moved to her desk and called out, "Enter!" He was glad to see that she appeared as reluctant to separate as he was.

"What are you thinking?" Sigrun demanded, a gale force sailing into the room. "Are you insane? And you!" she accused, rounding on him, her finger wagging in his face. "You had something to do with this, I just know it!" Her cheeks burned with color and her eyes were wide. "I'm dead! Why would you put me in charge?"

"Sigrun, I warned you that this would happen the last time you led a patrol so diligently. You are more than deserving of the title. Besides, Nathaniel will be accompanying me on several trips. I need someone here that I can trust, looking out for the Wardens and their interests. That's you. Unless you'd like to work under Gideon?"

"Not even on a dare," Sigrun hissed and then spun around again, heading for the door.

Anya's voice stopped her and Sigrun swung around, affixing Anya with a fierce glare. Nathaniel bit back the impulse to snicker at his friend's discomfort, as she had done to him countless times.

"Do I need to get out the torture device for impertinent Wardens?" Anya asked. Sigrun glared at her and then shook her head, obviously capitulating, wheeling around and marching to the door, head high.

"I need a drink of something stronger than that nug-piss you call whiskey," she added and slammed the door behind her.

"That went well," Anya commented dryly. "You're sure that's what you wanted, aren't you? Not that she'd be unhappy if you changed your mind."

"I'm sure. I've always maintained I'm not suited for a leadership role. Now, tell me about this leg brace of yours."

He watched as Anya struggled to get her emotions under control. She wanted to argue with him, again, about his abilities to lead. He knew he _could_, if necessary, but his preference had always been to travel alone, without encumbrances or responsibilities …until Anya had entered his life. Then he'd found himself volunteering to assist her, following her lead without argument, accepting his promotion to Senior Warden and then Second, and doing whatever was necessary to assist her.

Growing up as the first born son, knowing he would one day become the Arl of Amaranthine, he'd still preferred solitary pursuits, even though he should have been learning to lead men in battle, run an estate, govern. Which was probably what Father was trying to beat out of me, he thought with a familiar tug of bitterness.

"Stop it," Anya admonished softly. She had returned to his side, her fingers now cupping his chin. "You do yourself no favors by revisiting your past and allowing it to take hold."

He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her, letting his lips and teeth and tongue tell her that he'd heard her and was no longer in the past, but with her, in her office. When she finally broke away, to lean back, he saw that her cheeks were pink from stubble-burn and her lips swollen. She looked young and fresh and in love. With him, of all things.

"Nathaniel," she admonished, as if she'd read his thoughts. It wasn't his thoughts she read, but his tension and grimness, he knew.

"Anya," he replied, dredging up a smile. "The brace?" he prodded, returning to the subject at hand.

"Flynne suggested it would help alleviate some of my hip pain, possibly even give me a bit more mobility. But Sigrun is right. It is a torture device."

"Is it worth it?" he asked, preparing himself for her usual flare of anger when discussing her limp.

"I believe it's helping, Nathaniel. I'm not ever going to be normal again, I've accepted that, but if even a bit of mobility comes back, it's worth it."

He tipped her chin up and studied her, hoping that she had given up her reckless schemes to become 'whole again' as she put it. She returned his look without guile, a soft smile on her lips.

"It took me long enough, didn't it?" she whispered.

It didn't matter how long it had taken, she was finally at peace with her injuries and he could only be happy with that.

"Not as long as it's taking you, however," she added with a mischievous, infectious smile.

He quirked a brow at her and allowed himself a brief smile. "I'm working on it," he answered with quiet dignity.

"And that is all I can ask of you."

And there, in her office, as she rested her head against his chest, her hair smelling of verbena and sunshine, he realized he had taken the first actual steps away from the dark legacy of his father.


	30. Battles Won and Battles Lost

**A/N:** _I finally completed my primary story, With Noble Intent, so I hope to begin updating this every other week.  
>My heartfelt thanks to Lisa for wading through this jumbled mess so efficiently. You rock!<em>

**Battles Won and Battles Lost**

"Would you look at that, Hawke? More Raiders, just waiting to ambush us," Varric whispered.

"What do the Raiders of the Waking Sea want with us?" she whispered back, handing him the silver-plated spyglass, perplexed by the odd turn of events on the Wounded Coast.

Fenris shot them both a glare of annoyance. "If you persist in talking, you will be able to ask that question of them in person," he remarked, his tone low and severe with no trace of humor.

Halfway between the eastern reaches of the Wounded Coast approach and the city gates, they were on their stomachs, in the sand, hidden only by scrubby bushes and tall sea-grass. They were two days away from Kirkwall and Margaret, feeling the grit of sand irritating her skin, was tired and ready to be home.

The Raiders of the Waking Sea had other ideas as her group had run into several clusters of the Raiders on their return trip. They had not found any sign of Saemus Dumar, the reason for their trek in the first place. Besides being tired and filthy, Margaret was more than a little angry at having spent so long on a wild goose chase.

It was only through luck that they'd actually had some warning about the group currently barring their way. Sebastian had suggested he scout ahead and his diligence had saved their lives. The raiders were well equipped and numbered twenty, as far as Sebastian could tell.

"Probably has to do with your killing a large number of their fellow pirates?" Varric suggested.

"I only killed them because they insisted on throwing themselves at us and attacking."

"If you do not desist with your inane chatter, we will be forced to fight without a plan of attack," Fenris reiterated, his voice a hissing whisper of impatience.

Margaret fought back the urge to tell him that he was just as guilty as they were of talking, but refrained after a glance at his fierce expression. Instead, she gave him a shrug of her shoulders and a wry smile of apology.

It was, unsurprisingly, Sebastian's armor that gave their position away, and they lost any element of surprise they might have had. The sun, sailing out from behind a thick cloud bank, caught his white armor, causing it to flare like a mirror's reflection. Margaret's stomach tightened and her heart dropped.

"Ho! They's in them bushes!" yelled a beefy, heavily armored watchman. He pulled a huge sword from a sheath on his back and lifted it high as he called the others to arms.

"Shit! I think planning's off the table," Varric sighed, pulling Bianca from his back.

"Fenris, I'm going to have to use strong magic if we're to survive," Margaret warned, mentally reciting the spell for a storm of ice. If she could freeze a large enough group of them, they could control the battle. Her mind was calculating the odds of that happening while she waited for Fenris, who was usually in charge of their battle strategy, to give the orders.

"I understand. When I give the signal, I want a volley of arrows and bolts. I will go in low and attack the front group. Margaret, stand behind Varric and Sebastian while you cast."

Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs, and for several long seconds she forgot how to breathe, her fear rippling through her. Finally, she nodded, realizing that Fenris wouldn't give a signal until he was sure everyone was ready. They were running out of time; she could hear the sound of the raiders approaching above the erratic rhythm of her heart.

"Now," Fenris urged loudly and she pushed herself up, moving quickly to stand behind the archers.

She raised her arms and began to draw the runic symbols of the spell, chanting softly. The storm clouds gathered above the Raiders as she finished weaving the spell around them. With a final shout of Arcanum, the temperature began to drop as ice thickened the air. She held the spell as long as possible, hoping it had been long enough.

She noted several Raiders frozen in place and was about to shout out her triumph when she heard Varric's surprised grunt of pain as he went flying backwards, an arrow lodged in his left shoulder. She dropped to her knees and skittered to his side.

"Shit, that hurts," he growled, reaching for the arrow.

She knocked his hands aside. Why did people think they could just pull an arrow out? She'd learned through the course of her time in Athenril's mercenary group, that pulling was not always advisable. Nor was pushing. Sometimes the only way to remove an arrow was to cut it out.

Another arrow hissed overhead and she ducked instinctively. It thudded into the sand a few feet away, not quite within her grasp, but she needed that arrow if she was going to safely remove the arrow in Varric's shoulder.

"Stay still, Varric, before I knock you out," she ordered. The arrow was embedded deep in his chest, just below the shoulder joint , blood bubbling out from the wound. "Don't move," she added, crawling to the arrow in the sand and yanking it out to examine the arrowhead. It was missing from the shaft and she felt her heart plummet. She could yank the arrow out of Varric's shoulder, but the arrowhead would remain behind and she'd wind up cutting it out anyway. Or she could push it through, hoping to miss veins, arteries, or organs.

"I'm sorry, Varric," she whispered, and cast a sleep spell on him before returning to the battle.

"Hawke, set the grass around them ablaze!" Fenris shouted, gesturing at the group of frozen Raiders. She felt the bile rise from her protesting stomach. But the alternative was even more unpalatable so she raised her hands, carving the spell into the frosty air, before turning away in horror, trying to block out the screams of the dying.

When the last Raider lay dead, Margaret turned to Sebastian and Fenris, both of whom appeared to have escaped any serious injuries. She pointed at Varric, who was blissfully unaware of the arrow protruding from in his shoulder, or the pool of blood gathering beneath him.

"I'm going to sit him up so I can push the arrow through. Even asleep, he'll jerk and pull away from the pain so I need you to hold him still."

Sebastian blanched, his face nearly as white as his armor. "Hawke, can't you just pull it out?"

"Their arrowheads aren't fastened securely. If I pull it out, I'll have to go in and dig around for it. It's much safer to cut off the fletching and push it through."

She dug into her kit for bandages and poultices, hearing Sebastian's soft, fervent prayers and feeling the flare of Fenris's tattoos as she downed a lyrium potion. Taking a deep breath, she nodded to the two men, who carefully raised Varric's limp body and held on as she cut the arrow just below the fletching. She tossed the feathered top of the shaft aside and tried to still the shaking in her hands. Taking another deep breath, she began to firmly, but gently, push the arrow through Varric's shoulder, trying to concentrate on him and not the charred bodies of those she had just killed.

It was an impossible task.

**~~~oOo~~~**

They departed from Amaranthine on a sleekly built caravel four days after Anya's return to the Vigil, bound for Kirkwall. The _Halcyon _flew the gold and white colors of the city of Amaranthine, and the pennants fluttering in the wind atop her masts bore the crest of the city, complete with the golden bear. Her captain and crew numbered fifteen; every one of them, including the cabin-boy, from the arling.

Jonah Seddies, the captain, was a short man with a square jaw and grizzled grey hair, his skin tanned and weathered. His eyes were as bright a blue as the sea and he was openly appraising Anya as he greeted her.

"Arlessa, 'tis a pleasure, indeed, to have you on board. Watch the lads mid-ship, they've not been ashore for a spell," he warned in greeting. "They'll likely let their thoughts be known, but they're good men just the same, and wouldn't hurt a spring fly."

Anya quirked a brow, surprised by that. The _Halcyon_ had been in port for a full day and night. That the captain hadn't offered his men leave to visit the shore was unusual, and she commented on it, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

"Oh, aye, 'tis unusual, to be sure, but we've a full hold coming out of Gwaren, and I'll not have it lost to marauders and the like. My men will walk the shore in Cumberland when we've delivered our cargo."

Turning to her Wardens, she explained that Carver and Flynne would be sharing a small cabin, aft, and that she would be across from the captain's quarters. Carver raised a brow and looked pointedly at Nathaniel, who was already heading below deck with his gear. Anya shook her head.

"I didn't think I'd need to explain, Carver," she said and Flynne jabbed the young Warden with an elbow. "But if you insist, I'll be happy to," she added and laughed as he vigorously shook his head.

"Just tell me that we have separate berths," he growled, grabbing up his pack and slinging it over his shoulder.

"Ah, Carver, you really are Fereldan, aren't you?" Flynne teased, before flashing a smile at Anya.

"Stow it," Carver replied, but his scowl was overtaken by a reluctant grin.

It must be the day, Anya reflected, studying the cloudless expanse overhead. The water was a perfect reflection of the sky, infinite blue above and below. The wind smelled of the sea, and was a light caress in the tanbark sails. It was impossible to be angry or gloomy on a day that held such promise.

Ten minutes after boarding, Anya heard the captain's brisk command. "Cast off the lines! Our mistress awaits! Lay aloft, lads!

A young sailor, wearing canvas breeches, a bright red cotton shirt and a cheeky grin, asked if she'd like her private colors or the colors of the Grey Wardens flown in place of, or beneath, the ship's own pennants. It was a reasonable question as the practice of announcing – or bragging in some instances – who was sailing aboard a ship was not uncommon.

"I'm content to pass unnoticed," she replied quietly, smiling in response to the sailor's infectious grin.

"Aye, mistress, I'll be about the foredeck if you've further use of a handsome sailor," he replied with a wink, leaving Anya chuckling.

Nathaniel, looking absurdly young with his hair ruffled by the wind and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, moved with the assurance of an old salt, to stand on the forecastle deck, spyglass held to his eye. He braced against the light wind, searching the shore as it grew more distant. He seemed relaxed, as if he'd left a burden on the shore before boarding. Lowering the brass spyglass, he gave her a brief smile before returning to his task.

As soon as they were out of the rocky channel running between Brandel's Reach and Amaranthine, and into the open sea, the captain appeared at the railing beside her.

"'Tis fair sailing now, but I'd not be planning it for later this afternoon, Arlessa Anya. See that spot of brown off the starboard side? That's a mass of kelp pushed southward ahead of a storm," he warned quietly. "I trust you're all seasoned travelers who know what a storm at sea can be like."

Anya frowned. She had no idea whether Flynne had traveled at sea before or not. Carver had several times, but she had no idea how he'd fared. Reluctantly, she pushed away from the rail, determined to find out. "Thank you for the warning, Captain Seddies, I'll pass it along."

"Aye, better to be forewarned. As such, 'tis best you know that we're all armed on this ship. No marauder, nor pirate, nor raider, will claim this vessel unless the last crewman lies dead."

Turning, she studied the captain. He sounded matter-of-fact about the possibility of a pirate attack, but she saw the resolute smile he wore. His words were not designed to scare her, but warn her that if it came to it, they would fight to the death.

"Should such a thing come to pass, you'll have us at your side," she assured quietly.

"And proud we'll be to have you there."

She made her way to Carver and Flynne's cabin, carefully picking her way across the deck, now becoming slick with a thin layer of saltwater, brought on the wings of the breeze.

Carver answered her knock immediately, looking entirely too large for the small cabin. She noticed his shoulders were hunched, his head dipped down a bit. She wouldn't be surprised if he'd hit the room's low beam once or twice. "Maker, this is smaller than a thimble," he complained, glancing at Flynne, who was already comfortably ensconced in a hammock that swayed gently from the pitch and roll of the ship.

"Only if you're the size of an ogre," Flynne replied, content where he was.

"What a shame we can't all be short and scrawny."

In that moment, Anya felt as though she'd stepped back in time and was listening to her brother's teasing and her rejoinders, rather than two of her subordinates purporting to be adults. Not that she would ever tell them that; they seemed content as things were.

The bluff and swagger in Carver was a natural source of good-natured ribbing and she suspected he knew that, even encouraged it at times. She didn't blame him; a younger sibling was not always an easy thing to be. It was good to see him in good spirits, given one of the reasons they were traveling to Kirkwall.

"Flynne, you look as though you're an old sea-dog. Have you sailed many times?"

Flynne's dancing blue eyes crinkled as he grinned. "Served aboard a merchant ship for a year. You'd be amazed at how many captains are happy to have a healer with them. Not to mention the lack of templars at sea is a real boon."

Anya chuckled, turning her gaze back to the young man trying to make himself smaller in the tiny cabin. "And you, Carver? You've traveled by sea several times. How do you fare in a storm?"

Carver grinned, pushing a stray lock of dark hair from his face. "If Flynne can survive a year at sea as _delicate_ as he is, I reckon I'll be fine."

"I'm happy to hear that because the captain informed me that we'll encounter a storm in a few hours. He expects rough seas."

"Not to worry, Carver, I've got some herbs that will help when you start feeling queasy," Flynne said, putting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. "I'm willing to wager a sovereign that you'll need them."

"Shut it, Magey."

"I'll leave you to it," Anya snickered in farewell before limping along the narrow passage and climbing the short set of stairs up to the captain's deck. The cabin she was sharing with Nathaniel was only marginally larger than Carver and Flynne's but they had a bed, snug against a wall and bolted there. A chest, bracketed to the wood frame at the foot of the bed, had already been filled with the gear from their packs, and the Iron Crucible was lying atop the bed. She stared at it, wondering how awkward it would be to wear it in so small a bed.

She hadn't actually worn it to bed since returning to the Vigil, choosing instead to do her exercises and wear the brace in the mornings, and mostly out of sight of her Wardens. How would Nathaniel react to sleeping next to woman in such a contraption? Running nervous fingers along the metal brace, she contemplated wearing the thing during the day, but knew the pitching deck of a ship was not the place for it.

Wade, the Vigil's blacksmith, had added two more hinge sets, allowing more flexibility. Bragheda had added thick, soft cotton pieces in places that had previously rubbed Anya's skin, leaving bruises. Still, it was a brace and there was no way to be graceful while wearing it. She pushed it away and then started when the door opened.

"I wondered where you went," Nathaniel said, his voice low and warm.

She glanced up and gave him a quick smile, her eyes taking in his wind-burned cheeks and tousled hair. With a concerted effort, she let go of her fears and smiled at him, tilting her head. They would work through any issue the brace caused; it was what they had promised to do, and that thought invoked a smile.

"You look very boyish," she commented, her smile growing. "Like a young man on his first adventure at sea."

Nathaniel's eyes widened and he gave her a self-conscious half-smile. "I don't think anyone's ever told me I was boyish, either in looks or personality. Not even when I _was_ a boy."

"Definitely boyish with your shirt opened and sleeves rolled up. I even saw you smiling earlier. We should sail together more often."

He sat beside her, his hands resting on his thighs. "It seems to me that the last time we sailed together you barely spoke to me."

"Nathaniel Howe! That's not true. You avoided me like I was a darkspawn!"

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, his arm snaking around her waist to pull her onto his lap. "Let's get back to how boyish I look," he suggested, his voice low and intimate.

She leaned in, capturing his lower lip between her teeth, tugging gently. Her blood pooled low in her belly, spreading heat and she felt him stir beneath her as they kissed.

A pounding at their door interrupted them, and Anya jumped, startled by the sudden commotion. Before she could say anything, they heard a sailor's voice, loud and urgent.

"All hands on deck! Raiders to port and coming on fast!"

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anders lay staring at the cob-webbed ceiling, trying to remember what day it was. His headache refused to respond to magic or herbal remedies, continuing to throb with each beat of his heart.

The past few days, or what he thought must be days, were a blur. Or, more accurately, they were a complete blank in places punctuated with periods of painful lucidity. He groaned, sitting up. The room dimmed and swayed as his stomach churned, the pounding in his head growing stronger, and he cast a soothing wave of magic on himself. Placing his feet on the floor, he pushed himself up and padded unsteadily across the room to the washstand. The pitcher was full but the water had been there for awhile, a film of dust had settled on it.

He was in his tiny room in the back of the clinic, not at the Blooming Rose, where he had first thought. Nor was he at Margaret's, and he found that knowledge profoundly reassuring, given the few memories he did have.

_**Your rebellion has failed, Anders**_.

"What do you mean? What rebellion?" Anders asked as his heart fluttered and dipped. A rebellion? Had he urged the mages in the Gallows to rebel? He shook his head. He wouldn't be that stupid.

_**You think you can hide from me? From us? From what you've become? You think you can run back to the Vigil and all will be as it once was?**_

Weariness seeped into Anders and he stumbled across the small room to sit heavily on his bed, burying his face in his hands. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't remember, I don't – what do you want, Vengeance?" he asked, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat and clenched his fists. He would not cower around a spirit, refusing to let the spirit know he was afraid.

_**What do I want? I want the mages to be free, Anders. Isn't that what you're striving for? Freedom from the oppressive arm of the templars? Freedom from the Chantry's oversight? And if you don't remember these past two days it is because you don't want to remember. You told us to kill anyone who stands in our way. Best remember that the next time you fight me, Anders.**_

A scene flashed behind his closed lids…he was raging, his magic a thick blue haze around him as he hurled epitaphs at everyone who had ever wronged him, slighted him, harmed him. Pacing the floor in long, angry strides, he was screaming his fury at…

"Oh, Maker, no! Tell me that's just your way of controlling me. Tell me I didn't do that," he cried out in anguish.

_**You want me to continue lying? Coddling you? It's time to admit who is in control. Until you do that, I fear these episodes will only continue as you struggle against what is inevitable. You wanted your revenge and now that it is upon you, you shy away from it? **_

"No! That isn't what I wanted! I could never do that. Never. I'm not the one who did that to those people. You are!" Anders shouted, leaping to his feet. He would not kill in such a cold-hearted manner, would never attack innocent people. His entire life as a mage had been as a healer. Panic cascaded into him, washing away the blurred memory of a dozen people dead or dying on the floor of a crowded hovel in Darktown.

**Justice? Are you still there?**

_Anders, I have little time. You must not journey to the Vigil. He will kill Anya if you return. Do you understand? He has become aware of our attachment and he believes it is weakening our resolve. Do not travel to the Vigil._

**What do you mean you have little time? I thought you were bound to this body until I died?**

_There are numerous ways one can perish while one's body continues on. _

**What does that mean? What do you know, Justice? Justice?**

A deafening silence was the only response.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Sailors and Wardens grouped on the main deck, weapons and resolve at the ready. The captain and Anya were deep in conversation and Nathaniel watched with a growing sense of dread. The Raider's ship had come around the headlands northeast of Amaranthine, sails trimmed for speed. They had, by his reckoning, less than twenty minutes before the ship was within boarding distance.

"Carver, you're to stay with the captain and the helmsman. Don't let anything happen to them, is that clear? We need them maneuvering the ship through the storm if it hits," Anya instructed and Nathaniel heard the implacable Commander of the Grey of Ferelden in her voice, a reassuring timbre that lessened the hard knot in his gut, if only marginally.

"Yes, Commander, you have my word," the young man vowed, and if he looked a bit green around the gills, he also looked determined, for which Nathaniel felt thankful.

"Flynne, I'll want you to go with the Sailing Master and his group, use every spell you have to prevent the boarding party stepping one foot on the deck."

"No worries, Anya, I'll see to it. But if there are injured who need assistance, I expect to hear about it."

Anya glanced at the sailors, armed and ready to die defending the Halcyon, and Nathaniel saw the small frown that furrowed her brow. Too few people to be effective, her look said, but her voice was strong and calm when she spoke. "If possible, you'll hear, but if it means we lose one man rather than half a dozen, it will be my call to make. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Commander Anya," the mage replied, his usual good-natured grin replaced by a grim, hard line.

She turned to Nathaniel and he saw just how concerned she was about the upcoming battle. Her face was pale and drawn and her expression severe, but her hands were steady, as was her voice.

"Nathaniel, do what you do best. Stay out of sight and attack from the shadows should they board. Try to hit whoever appears to be leading. Cut off the snake's head and the body can't fight."

Nathaniel's eyes narrowed and the need to disobey her orders rose in him. He let out a low sound of protest, but knew that arguing would be pointless and detract from what little time they had to prepare. He also knew she was right in her decision. He would be most effective in the shadows, striking quickly and quietly. He trusted her judgment, as well as her leadership, and now was the time to let her know that. It was not, however, easy. His jaws nearly snapped under the strain of not voicing his desire to stay by her side.

"If it pleases you, Commander," he said. To both their surprise, he pulled her to him and kissed her quickly. "Stay safe," he whispered before slipping silently into the shadows.

It was possible that their ship could outrun the Raider's slower, heavier carrack, but only if they caught a quickening wind. And if the storm hit, the caravel would lose the advantage of speed as it was more difficult to control in high seas. From his spot on the foredeck, Nathaniel looked out at the wall of deep violet clouds, limned in gold by the afternoon sun. The storm was still at least an hour out. He could only hope that any battle would be won before then.

"All right, lads, grab your gear and get back to your posts! That's all she's got!" Captain Steddies called out.

From his vantage point, Nathaniel watched the approaching vessel. The carrack was flying the flag of the Felicisima Armada, a white skull wearing a blood red blindfold against a black field. Why were the most powerful pirates in Thedas attacking only those ships flying the colors of the city of Amaranthine? The likelier scenario was that the Raiders had been hired by a noble, for some reason. The questions were: what noble and why? To embarrass the Arlessa of Amaranthine? To drain the coffers of the arling? Was it personal or merely business? The caravel was small, unable to carry as large a cargo as a carrack or other merchant ship, which meant it was probably personal. But why? And on whose authority?

He stirred restlessly and moved deeper into the shadows, waiting and watchful. Anya and her small group of men went below deck. Before she disappeared down the steps, she turned, searching for him, her eyes scanning the shadows. Rather than give his position away, he stayed silent, even though his instinct screamed to give her some sign of reassurance that he was prepared for the upcoming battle. He trusted her to know that.

Unexpectedly, Nathaniel felt the the Halcyon start to turn, sails hanging loose without the wind filling them. Confusion was quickly replaced by anger, and Nathaniel moved with lethal efficiency through the shadows to the stern, where the helmsman and captain should be steering the ship. No captain worth his salt would allow his sails to collapse while being pursued.

Climbing up the rope netting ot the upper deck, Nathaniel's stomach clenched as he surveyed the scene below him. Carver was fighting the helmsman, while the captain, either unconscious or dead, was sprawled face down on the deck, a bright red stain spreading beneath him. Nathaniel slipped his bow from his back and was already firing an arrow before the scene fully registered with him. The helmsman went down without a sound, the arrow piercing his neck, just below his skull. Dropping his bow, Nathaniel vaulted over the railing .

Carver shoved the helmsman's body out of the way and knelt beside the captain. He shook his head, looking up in Nathaniel's direction. "The bloody bastard! He knifed the captain before I knew what was going on!"

Nathaniel ran across the slippery deck and skidded to a stop beside Carver. "Is the captain alive?" he asked urgently, looking up at the sails.

"Only just."

"Get Flynne, explain what's happened. Bring the Sailing Master with you. We need to turn the ship! Go!" Nathaniel yelled when Carver hesitated.

But Nathaniel suspected it was too late to save the captain, and, as he heard the grappling hooks strike the rail, he realized it was also too late to stop the boarding party. Cursing his stupidity, he remembered he'd left his bow where he'd dropped it. With a growl of frustration, he unsheathed his daggers, removed a phial of Quiet Death and coated his blades before sprinting for the shadows.

His anger turned cold and hard as he watched the first pirates step onto the portside deck. It took him a minute to distinguish who was leading the group of Raiders because they clumped up once their feet hit the deck. He continued to watch and a tall, broad-shouldered man, long blond hair tied back, disengaged himself from the others, and, short swords drawn, he walked across the deck, a cocky grin on his face.

Not for long, you whoreson, Nathaniel cursed, before moving silently through the rigging and then climbing up the mizzen mast. Bringing out his boot-knife, he cut through the thick roping that held the sail in place, leaving only a few stands of the sisal. Once that was done, he waited for the tall blonde to walk underneath the wilted sail; he didn't have long to wait. When the leader of the raiding party walked beneath the mizzen sail, Nathaniel cut through the rigging. As the sail began its descent, Nathaniel dropped down on the deck behind the man, the slight noise from his feet impacting the planking swallowed by the surprised shouts of the other pirates caught underneath the mizzen sail. The man swung around and into Nathaniel's coated blades. Without remorse, he plunged them into the surprised pirate.

Smiling grimly, Nathaniel twisted the daggers, watching the man's eyes widen in shock before the light flickered out of them and his lids drooped. He dropped the man and turned to the group held captive under the heavy sail, hearing another round of grappling hooks hitting the portside railing. Before he had time to react, Flynne, with the Sailing Master on his heels, was there, letting loose a series of fireballs that exploded into the group of men under the sail. The shrieks were still ringing in Nathaniel's ears as he raced across the deck and leapt from the foredeck onto the main deck.

Anya and Carver were fighting back to back, half a dozen Raiders circling them. He saw the flash of blades as Anya struck out with her daggers, and his heart thudded into his ribs when he saw one of her blades fly out of her hand. She kicked out at the man who'd knocked her blade away and then plunged her other dagger deep into the man's chest. The man fell, nearly bringing Anya with him, but she twisted away and then fell against Carver, who steadied her before continuing to fight.

Nathaniel melded with the shadows, and, once he was close enough, he leapt forward, his left dagger finding a home in the back of a pirate's neck. As the raider fell, Nathaniel spun around in time to see the last of the pirates fall, Anya sinking onto the planked flooring beside the dead man.

Sprinting across the deck, Nathaniel felt the sickening lurch of his heart and stomach. She was bloody and it was impossible to tell where, or even if, she was wounded. He knelt beside her and she leaned against him briefly, exhausted.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice strained from exertion and worry.

She looked up and gave him a wobbly, brief smile of reassurance that quickly faded away. "I think we lost three sailors."

"More than that, we lost the captain and the helmsman."

"Lucky for you, I kept this one alive," Carver announced proudly, prodding a sailor with his bloodied boot.

It took them an hour to wrest any information from the man. It wasn't until Anya, her voice as cold and bleak as a Ferelden winter, said, "Keelhaul him. If he won't talk we've no use for him."

She turned away and marched out of the room. Nathaniel kept his face blank, his voice hard and uncompromising. "You heard Commander Anya. Get the rope."

The man blustered, his face ashen. "You can't do that. The Raiders will kill you for what you've done today!"

"They already tried and they failed. Spectacularly. You have one chance to tell us who hired the Felicisimo Armada to attack ships flying the Amaranthine colors."

The man looked first to Carver, who smiled broadly at him, and then to Flynne, who shrugged. "She's the boss. What she says, we do."

"A chevalier!" the man cried out, his voice shrill with fear. "Claimed to be sent by Celene herself."


	31. Surviving

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for whipping this chapter into shape. You are a beta goddess!**  
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**Surviving **

In the hour the Wardens had taken to interrogate the prisoner, the crew of the _Halcyon_ had been busy preparing the bodies for interment at sea. They had also begun the process of repairing the sail in order to get under way before the storm hit. When the bodies were ready, Tibbles, the young sailing master, called to the crew, and Anya gathered her Wardens, as well, leaving their prisoner tied firmly to a beam in the cargo hold.

They all gathered at the rail, watching as the captain's corpse was committed to the sea. The body of the traitorous helmsman had been tossed overboard, without remorse, to reside in the unhallowed water with the Raiders. Only the three crewmen and Captain Seddies were reverentially enshrouded in specially weighted sailcloth and sent to the bottom of the Waking Sea in a solemn service performed by Tibbles.

"Maker, who rules the raging seas, be pleased to receive into thy sacred waters our brethren. From these emerald waters doth life begin anew," Tibbles finished and nodded quietly, his hand resting for a long moment on the captain's shroud.

_My fault._ Anya was embarrassed to find tears trickling down her cheeks and she felt Nathaniel's calloused thumb brush across her knuckles as he took her hand. _My fault_. A whisper of guilt, there and gone again, crowded out by seagulls screeching and squawking in the pale sky.

As soon as the shrouds disappeared beneath the flat, grey surface of the water, the sailors turned as one and continued putting the ship to rights in preparation of sailing. Tibbles warned them that the storm was bearing down and the sea, now as placid as a pond, would begin to roil and seethe soon. The ship had to be prepared or they would flounder.

The sail was mended and re-hoisted, the decks swabbed of blood and gore and the injured tended to. _My fault_. Another murmur of guilt plucked at her. She blinked, gripping her hands tightly, trying to focus on the tasks at hand.

Glancing north, she saw a wall of clouds, nearly black, so filled with rain that they hung heavy in a sky that was no longer blue but a pale pewter. The ocean took on a tarnished silver cast, unmarred by waves. The kelp bed near the hull was continuing to increase in size as the storm approached and a low, faint rumble in the distance was becoming louder and more constant. The air was too still, too oppressive and she shivered, knowing the storm would be violent. She wanted to suggest that they turn the ship and race the storm back to a safe berth in Amaranthine, but Tibbles, his young face serious and thoughtful, assured her that even with a diminished crew they would be fine.

"And the Raiders' ship? What should we do about it?" Anya asked, turning to port and staring at the deserted vessel beside them.

"Two middies and Master Nate went across to search her. If there's naught worth salvaging we'll leave her adrift. She'll scuttle easily enough, I reckon. The storm'll push her into the reefs and that's the best thing for her, too. No canny seaman will e're sail on a ship once owned by Raiders. And, like as not, their mates'll think their deaths were naught but an accident."

_My fault_. Anya shivered at the venom in the man's voice, watching him as he went back to his duties. It was her fault, all of it. She stared at the calm surface of the water, a stark contrast to the emotions churning inside her. She tried to push the guilt aside for the moment, but it wound around her thoughts and tightened like a choke-vine. It was her fault and every man on board the _Halcyon_ had to have realized it by now, yet none seemed to blame her. They should, she thought savagely. They should, and that they didn't angered her, and deepened the guilt that weighted her heart until it felt like a stone in her chest.

They wouldn't have been attacked had she raised the Grey Warden colors, but she'd deliberately ensured the Amaranthine colors would be flown in the hope that they could flush out a pirate ship and at least determine where the Raiders were based. That ploy had cost four good men their lives, and she wondered when she had become so ruthless. Doing whatever was necessary, no matter the cost, was all well and fine when quelling a Blight, but it didn't apply to innocent people in peace-time.

What had given her the right to do such a thing without even discussing it with the captain? Andraste's grace, what had she become over the last year? She massaged her temples with shaking fingers, willing the headache away. Her guilt remained firmly entrenched.

Resolutely pushing away from the rail, she turned and made her way below decks, trying to focus on helping recover from the attack instead of wallowing in her guilt, which could not be willed away or assuaged so easily. She fought the urge to seek out each man and personally apologize to them, knowing that the last thing they needed at the moment was a distraction from their work. Her headache blossomed, spreading across her temples, throbbing relentlessly.

Of the ten remaining crew, two were seriously wounded and had been taken to the captain's quarters, where Flynne was busy wielding magic. Anya made her way there to assist and she found Flynne downing a lyrium potion when she entered the close quarters. The two sailors were sleeping, she noted with relief, their chests rising and falling steadily as they breathed.

"Too bad the Joining is a secret. Mages all over Thedas would love it," Flynne enthused, his eyes taking on an unnatural brightness.

"Are you sure that isn't the lyrium talking?"Anya asked, indicating the empty phial in his hand. She studied him closely. His hair was tousled, his Warden armor was askew and his cheeks were flushed. He looked as if he'd had one too many flagons of ale.

"Not the lyrium, definitely not the lyrium," he said, grinning exuberantly. "It's the power. Maker's harlot, it's the bloody Joining! Did you see how big that fireball was earlier?"

When she had first become a Warden, she had heard whispers that a Warden mage had the power of a blood mage, or a Tevinter magister, but she had always put it down to bragging until Anders had once said very much the same thing to her. He'd explained that the negative effects of the Joining were outweighed by the benefits: it sped up the regeneration of mana, fueled more powerful spells, and gave the mages incredible willpower, thus allowing them to cast longer before needing lyrium to augment or restore their abilities. She'd known, from her own experience, that the Joining gave her more stamina, more strength and that she healed more quickly. She supposed it made sense that mages would be similarly affected.

"I can't believe the Chantry would allow you to recruit mages," Flynne continued, his grin becoming wider, looking like a naughty young boy getting away with something.

Frowning, Anya looked at the injured crewmen, ensuring they really were asleep, before turning to look at Flynne. When she spoke, her voice was no louder than a whisper. "They don't have any say in the matter. Or at least they and the First Warden pretend that's true. There is an uneasy relationship between the Wardens and the Chantry."

Running a hand through his unruly locks, Flynne's grin turned almost feral in the low lighting. That he had no love for the Chantry was widely known, but she saw, in that feral grin, just how deeply rooted his dislike of the Chantry was. A shiver pressed down her spine, an uneasy memory of Anders when he spoke of templars flaring in her thoughts. A whispered dread skittered beneath her skin.

"Not that I'm a sorry, but why don't they get along?" Flynne probed, eyes narrowing in curiosity.

She blinked, coming back to the present. It hardly seemed like the time or place for a history lesson, but she motioned for him to sit in the captain's chair while she perched on a sea chest, glad for a respite. Her hip and leg ached from the battle and she stretched her leg out with a sigh before speaking.

"Because the Chantry knows the Wardens are a formidable force. There were Wardens long before the Chantry was formed, before the templars. Wardens don't elicit the fear in the general populace that templars often do. Even between Blights, the Wardens remain a romantic legend, but templars have a bloody and brutal history that is difficult to overlook among many people. The Chantry resents that history. They are the ones who negotiated for the stricture that Wardens not involve themselves in the governance of nations and the Wardens were happy to agree. They never wanted to become involved in politics." At least not until recently, she thought but kept that bitter reflection to herself.

"And, while the Chantry's army of templars is larger, we're stronger. We allow our mages to learn whatever spells are necessary to battle the darkspawn, and you've seen us fight. Even if the templars outnumbered us by a large number, who do you think would win a battle between the templars and Wardens?"

Flynne whistled. "So, they play nice because the alternative is too grim for them? It's all about the balance of power?"

"That, and the Chantry knows we are necessary to quell Blights. Or, to be more precise, the Divine, the Knight Divine and the Lord Seeker know that a Warden is necessary to kill the Archdemon. But they don't trust the Wardens and the Wardens…" she trailed off with a long sigh. "Well, they have learned to trust no one."

"Secret societies with secret rituals hate other secret societies with secret rituals," Flynne agreed. He fell silent, studying her, a slight frown flitting across his features.

"You look pale. Are you hurt?" he asked and started to rise. She motioned him back into his chair and then stood.

"Tired. Fighting on the deck of a ship is a new experience for me, and I'm loath to admit it, but my hip is not very happy about it."

Ignoring her tacit command to stay seated, he rose and came to stand before her. She could feel a cool, invigorating wave of magic envelop her and something else, another spell riding just below the rejuvenation spell. She frowned, wondering if she'd imagined it, but Flynne wore an apology in his smile.

"Just a mild sedation spell, to help ease your pain," he explained, continuing quickly before she could speak, "You need to get off your feet for awhile, Annie. As your healer I insist you have a lie-down. Unless you'd rather discuss what's really ailing you?"

She dismissed his suggestion with a wave of her hand. "I'm fine, Flynne, and I need to ensure everyone is prepared for the upcoming storm. Have you seen Carver?"

"If Nathaniel hasn't mentioned it to you lately, you're a stubborn, stubborn woman," Flynne said with a smirk.

"And you're insubordinate. Perhaps that's why we get along so well," she replied with a slight smile tugging at her lips. "Carver?" she asked again.

"Carver is…well, let's just say he'll be busy until we put into port," he replied, adding, "He's acting as the helmsman at the moment."

He stepped closer, peering down at her. "And I will put you to sleep if I have to, Commander. This has been an eventful day and I can tell that your hip is bothering you a lot more than you're letting on."

"Your concern is duly noted, Flynne," she said dismissively and then sighed, continuing in a softer voice, "Thank you."

As she turned to leave, the ship lurched and dipped. She reached out to steady herself and Flynne grabbed her arms, holding her firmly in place. His stance was wide and he was braced against the sudden pitch and yaw as the first buffeting winds filled the sails.

"Please, Commander, either stay here or go across to your room. The storm's going to keep all the men busy, especially as short-handed as they are. They don't need to be worrying about you as well."

Anya nodded once and he released his hold on her arms. She staggered to the door and then across to her room just as the ship seemed to rise and crash into the sea. The wind howled like a furious, wounded beast as the lightning crackled and sizzled and the thunder reverberated in ever increasing volume.

_My fault_. If they lost anyone to the storm it would be her fault because she had managed to kill the captain and three of his crew. She shut her eyes against the image of Jonah Seddies's weathered and lined face, his bright smile. She should have said something, warned him what her plan was.

She made a low sound, a rumble in her chest that pushed to be released. If her Wardens died in the storm, it would be her fault because she hadn't bothered to tell them, either. The ship rose again and slammed into the water, pitching her forward. Losing her footing, she was tossed to the floor and remained there, tears flooding her eyes, cheek pressed to the cold planking while she waited for the storm to pass.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Margaret, please," Sebastian countered truculently. "You can't possibly believe anyone under Elthina's guidance has anything to do with sending us on this fool's errand!"

Margaret, striding along the Wounded Coast approach, shot Sebastian an angry glance without slowing down. There were times, as much as she appreciated him, that she thought he was much too naïve about the machinations of man.

"I know that Old Fagan claimed he saw a sister from the Kirkwall chantry walking with Saemus just before he went missing. I want to know who it was and why," she replied in an implacable voice. "I want to know who wanted us out of the city and why. I want to know why they, whoever _they_ are, tried to blame the Qunari and I want to know _now_!"

Rage had replaced every other emotion, her voice rising like a sharp wind. They'd found Old Fagan's broken body near the ambush site and he'd died from injuries even she couldn't heal moments later, still trying to tell her what he knew. Her rage, she knew, was fueled by her guilt. She'd killed countless men, could still hear their tortured screams echoing in her head. Anger and guilt were the only things keeping her from sinking down into the hard-packed sand and crying. Instead, they propelled her along the path at a rapid pace.

"Hawke, slow down, will ya? My legs are short, in case you forgot," Varric complained.

Guilt warred with impatience and guilt won out. She slowed down, offering a half-hearted smile of apology to the dwarf. "Sorry, Varric."

"Yeah, yeah. Admit you just like to see me hopping and skipping to catch up."

An unexpected bubble of laughter escaped her and she came to a halt, only then realizing that her leg muscles were burning with fatigue. Fenris came to stand beside her, hiding his smirk behind a cough. A brief respite from the anger loosened the knots in her shoulders.

"We cannot make Kirkwall before tomorrow, even should you run the entire way. It would be wise to find a defensible position for the night," Fenris said quietly, an edge to his voice that could either be humor or censure, she wasn't quite sure.

Margaret knew that he was absolutely correct, and that was exactly what they should so, even as she glowered at him.. "Thank you, General Fenris," she said acidly and then clamped a hand over her wayward mouth. It wasn't his fault that she'd set several groups of men on fire, but she seemed determined to take it out on him nonetheless. She had been sniping at him for the last hour or more, and he was understandably hurt by it.

"I'm sorry, Fenris. That was uncalled for," she said, immediately contrite. Damn her temper. She fastened her eyes to the ground and took several deep, calming breaths before looking up. When she did it was to find Sebastian and Varric had walked on, thoughtfully leaving her alone with Fenris.

"I will remind you, Margaret, that it was by your insistence that I lead us during battles. If you are displeased with my decisions, have the courtesy to tell me so in private," he said, his voice the low growl of a wounded animal.

"I –," she began, placing her hand lightly on his armored arm. Tears pushed at her throat, scalding it. She swallowed, waiting for the sting to pass before continuing, "I'm not unhappy with you, it's just…" she trailed off, sniffing loudly. She was not going to cry. She. Was. Not.

"Their deaths are not your fault. You did not compel them to assault us. They chose their fate the minute they took up arms against us. That you survived while they perished is…"

But she stopped him, pressing her lips against his, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. His arms came up and cradled her, and she rested for a moment, trying to regain her calm.

"It doesn't mean I like to kill. I'm supposed to be a healer," she replied, stepping back to keep from embarrassing them both with more public displays of tears and affection.

Fenris frowned, and she could feel the vibration of his markings as they stirred. "If your implication is that I take pleasure in killing, you are gravely mistaken," he replied stiffly, his voice cool and distant.

Shocked by his comment, Margaret stared at him for a moment, unable to speak around her surprise. Did he really believe that she felt that way? Of course he did. Why wouldn't he? And yet, her anger overcame her words again. "I never said that, or even implied such a thing. Are you sure that isn't _your _guilt speaking?"

"Guilt? What have I to be guilty for?" he asked coldly, arms folded as he met her gaze.

"Don't you feel any remorse?" she shot back, mystified by her anger. It wasn't his fault they'd fought and she'd killed a dozen or more men. Why was she lashing out at him? She gripped her hands tightly as her magic stirred and danced, tickling along her nerves.

"You wish me to feel remorse for killing someone who was attempting to kill _me_?" he asked, a dark brow raised, voice limned with incredulity. "Feeling remorse would signify that there was malfeasance on my part. I would remind you, Margaret, that _they_ attacked _us._ I regret their fatuity in doing so, but I feel no guilt or remorse; nor should you."

Easy for him to say, perhaps even easy for him to feel, but each death was a blow to her. She felt it physically, and in that moment it pressed in on her, an almost unbearable weight. "My father taught Bethany and I to use our magic only for that which is good."

"And did he not also instruct you on the necessity of survival?"

She turned away, smoothing the dark grey of her robe as her anger inexplicably dropped away, leaving her sad and tired. "Does surviving have to be so bloody?" she whispered.

She felt his hand, light and reassuring on her shoulder, his words a balm to her wounds. "You wish me to prevaricate? To reassure you with platitudes? My respect for you will not allow me to do that."

"It's brutal, this life. I didn't realize how sheltered I was in Lothering until I left there."

She felt his fingers run lightly along her arm before curling around hers, squeezing gently. "Life _is_ brutal, but it is also filled with joy, as you have taught me."

"If you make me cry in front of Sebastian and Varric, I'll make sure to kiss you in the middle of the Hightown market during the day," she threatened, sniffing again, but the simmering anger and guilt didn't resurface. She gave him a watery smile that turned into a laugh as she saw the panic in his eyes.

"Your humor is puerile on the best of days," he muttered as they began to walk along the path again.

"And yours is so dry as to be positively arid," she replied with another, much less watery, smile.

"Indeed? I am reminded of a time when you intimated that I had no sense of humor at all."

She lifted a brow. "There are times when that still holds true."

Fenris made a low sound of disapproval, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "I will not prevail in this war of words, will I?"

"Not a chance," she agreed.

They caught up with Varric, whose shoulder was bound and causing him to curse colorfully as he tried to set up his tent. Margaret was about to help him but Sebastian stepped in, taking the oiled canvas from him. As she set up her own tent, pitched very close to Fenris's, she listened to the storm, far out to sea, the distant roll of thunder an unexpected panacea for her guilt.

"Maker guide those at sea in such a storm," Sebastian prayed, staring at the far-off grey bank of clouds.

"As long as we don't get any rain," she said, glancing at the deep grey sky above them. The sunset was not far off, but the bleak clouds only allowed a pale outline of the sun through their thick wall.

"Well, I know I wouldn't want to be out there during a storm," Varric said, standing beside Sebastian as he gazed out at the sea. "But then again, I wouldn't be at sea, anyway. If you can't reach a place by land then you have no business going there."

"Varric Tethras, you aren't afraid of sailing, are you?" Margaret snickered, coming to join them, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.

"Madam, you wound me. I am most definitely _not_ afraid of sailing," he began indignantly, hand to chest. "It's the drowning that bothers me," he added with a grin.

When they had all reined in their laughter, Sebastian spoke, changing the subject. "Fenris, would you care to help me hunt? I'm sure we can find a brace of rabbits or a few quail for supper."

"What? You need him to scare them out from cover?" Varric asked, his grin turning into a chuckle.

"Enough, little man, lest you become the bait for a bear trap," Fenris replied before walking off with a great show of dignity.

The guilt and anger that had threatened to unravel her now gone, Margaret set about gathering wood for their campfire, listening to the distant rumbles of a far off storm.

**~~~oOo~~~**

As he hurried back to his clinic, thoughts busy avoiding memories, Anders tripped over a bundle of rags and sprawled in the filth of an alleyway not far from his destination. He swore, long and passionately as he sat up, shoving the rags out of his way. The rags cried out, a sound of pain and fear that made his heart leap into his throat. He poked a finger at the rags, and they cried out again.

He squinted, trying to focus on the bundle, noticing a pair of spindly, grime-encrusted legs sticking out of the even grimier rags. A head poked out, dark blond hair matted to its scalp,; eyes, thickly-lashed and a golden brown, were wide with fright, but quickly narrowed to suspicion and belligerence.

"What are you doing here? Where are your parents?" Anders demanded, using his foot to push aside more of the rags.

"Not your business, is it?" came the querulous reply.

Anders leaned closer, glaring at the filthy child. Maker, he smelled like a sewer. Anders held his breath, trying not to gag and when he was sure he could speak, he said, "I'm making it my business. Now, where's your family?"

"Don't have one," the child muttered. "Don't need one, neither."

A sharp pang twisted into Anders and he scooted closer, trying to soften his voice. "Everyone needs family," he said, sending a tiny fragment of magic into the bundle. Malnourished, bruised and weak, but nothing seriously wrong. A week of rest and food would have him set to rights in no time. Breath whistled out of Anders in relief.

"Maybe, but I don't got one no more, so shove off."

"You're awfully bossy for someone who can't be more than seven or eight."

"Nine, last Cloudreach," came the proud reply.

"Well come out of there and let's have a look at you," Anders instructed sternly, only softening it with a smile once he saw movement.

The bundle of rags unfolded and a stick-thin boy stood up, taller than Anders initially thought him. "What do you want?" the boy asked suspiciously, folding his thin arms across his narrow chest and glaring up at Anders.

"I'm a healer. I want to heal those bruises," Anders replied, wondering why he was bothering. There were too many homeless young children, refugees from Ferelden, outcasts from all over the city, living in the rank squalor of Darktown, pick-pocketing and worse for enough to scrape by on. He couldn't take them all in, for Maker's sake. But there was something oddly familiar about the boy, something that sparked a warm memory in him, that reminded him of something he'd lost long ago.

He tilted his head, tapping his chin. "You might be just what I'm looking for," he continued, offering the boy a friendly smile. "I need someone to clean up the clinic and keep an eye on things when I'm not there. Pay's not great, but the food and bed are free."

"Not interested if you got other ideas," the boy replied gruffly, looking away, but not before Anders caught a look of disappointment and fear chase across his gaunt face.

Anders felt another sharp pang. Nine was too young to be that wary, to have that kind of understanding. He barely restrained himself from hugging the boy to him. That certainly wouldn't put the lad's fears to rest, he chastised himself and moved cautiously closer to the boy.

"I'm not interested in that either, no worries there. I'm just too busy and too lazy to clean up after myself. What's your name?"

"Tell me yours first."

Anders grinned, reminded of himself as a young boy, just as prickly and brazen. "Anders."

"Fallon," the young boy said, thrusting a thin arm out and shaking Anders's hand.

I must be mad, Anders thought as he led the young boy back to the clinic.

_**This will not end well, Anders, but you already know that, do you not?**_

Anders ignored the voice and continued walking to his clinic, Fallon walking quietly beside him. If he could help even one of the Darktown Sewer Rats, as the orphans were often called, he would, by the Maker, do so.

"When we get there, you're going to have a scrub up while I fetch some food. When's the last time you ate a decent meal?"

The boy cocked his head, counting quietly to himself before finally shrugging. "Don't know," he admitted. "But I can eat, that's certain."

Anders laughed quietly. "Good to know, young man."

As he set about finding something for Fallon to wear, he realized he hadn't felt such peace in months. He felt a spark of hope ignite in him and a smile winged across his features, settling on his lips.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The deck was an undulating, writhing mass of slick planking as Nathaniel carefully worked his way across it, intent on checking on Anya. Waves cascaded over the rail, high plumes spraying across the length and breadth of the ship. He shivered, slipping and sliding as the high seas seemed to toss the ship around with the careless abandon of a child.

Tibbles had assured him that they were in no danger, and that he wasn't needed above decks because it was one more thing he'd worry about. Nathaniel was grateful for the reprieve. He'd had no idea how painful rain could be when whipped to a frenzy by a raging storm; his skin felt raw from the wind and salt spray that had battered at it for the better part of an hour. The continuous roar of the wind felt as if it was a permanent fixture in his head and the thunder rolled through him.

Anya was sitting on the edge of their bed, twisting her hands, as pale as a winter moon. She looked up as he entered, bringing sheeting rain with him. The door was yanked from his grasp by a gust of wind and banged against the wall before he could grab hold of it. He shut it and leaned against it, panting from the exertion of walking across the deck.

Springing up with a blanket in her hand, Anya limped quickly to his side, wrapping the wool around his shoulders as he shivered.

"Tibbles s-says we – we're almost out of it now. We're on the back side of it," he finally managed to get out between his chattering teeth.

Leading him to the bed, she asked, "And Carver? Is he safe?"

"S - safe and h-having a high adventure from the l - look on his face," Nathaniel assured with another bout of shivering as she began unlacing his sodden shirt.

Peeling out of his water-logged clothes was an exercise in perseverance. More than once they both fell across the bed after a swell sent them staggering across the room. Finally she sat on the bed and he stood, held in place by her legs, as they worked to disrobe him.

As soon as the last of his sodden clothes fell to the floor, he dove under the covers, pulling her with him. "You realize that you'd provide more warmth out of your clothes?" he teased, curling into her.

"I realize that we could all have to abandon ship at any moment and I don't relish the idea of doing so without a stitch on," she replied, but the smile that rode her lips avoided her eyes.

"Tibbles assures me that won't happen. He may look all of seventeen but he's not, and he's capable. Besides, aren't you the one who bragged about her sea legs when we boarded?"

Her eyes slid away from his, and he frowned, pulling her close and settling her head on his shoulder. "You aren't going to tell me what's really bothering you without an argument, are you?" he asked, just loud enough to be heard over the howling wind. "And if I had to guess, I'd say it has something to do with the Raiders' attack."

He felt her withdraw from him, for all that she continued to lie quietly in his arms, and his grip tightened on her, as if to force her to stay and face whatever was causing her such pain.

"Talk to me, Anya," he urged, turning slightly so he could study her face. He brushed aside a wisp of dark red hair and planted a light kiss on her brow.

"Trust," he began, but then she was crying, sobs that shook her, the bed, him. Even in the midst of the storm raging around them, her sobs echoed in the small room. He smoothed her hair and continued to hold her, trying to understand what was causing her such distress.

"I should have told you. I should have told the captain," she finally whispered between shuddering hiccups.

"Told us what? That you were laying a trap for the Raiders?" Nathaniel asked quietly, unable to keep the quiet rebuke from his voice. "That would have been nice, certainly," he agreed. "But that isn't why the captain died. He died because a traitor stabbed him in the heart."

He felt Anya tremble, her face a mask of misery. "If you knew, why didn't you say something?" she asked quietly. "Yell at me, or demand that I tell the captain? Tell me I was wrong?"

It was only then that he realized the storm was dying down, the whistling shriek of wind a mere whisper, the ship rocking almost gently now. His relief brought a smile to his face and he turned toward her a bit more, throwing his leg across her hip and pulling her to him.

"Why would I have done that, Anya? It was your decision to make and you made it. You were right when you told me I couldn't protect you and I had to stop second-guessing you. We both know you were right.

"This is a matter of trust; you were correct about that as well, but right now it isn't my lack of trust in you, it's yours in all of us. Or, maybe it's that you don't trust yourself?"

She shuddered again, a gust of warm breath feathering across his skin where her head nestled into the crook of his neck, and he felt the heat of her tears trickling down his shoulder.

"If you had wanted me to know your plan you would have told me, and we would have discussed who else should or shouldn't know. But you didn't. What would you ask of me, now? To second guess you constantly? How will that be any different than the past? You can't have it both ways, Anya," he told her, kissing her lightly.

She nodded, refusing to look at him, the silk of her damp hair tickling at his skin. "You have every right to be angry with me, and hurt," came her muffled reply.

"Yes, I do have that right. I am angry and hurt. Or I was. If I am upset by anything, now, however, it's how little credit you give those around you. Did you really think some of us wouldn't know and understand why you didn't fly the Warden colors? Do you really believe we're that stupid?"

As hard as he tried, he couldn't keep the reprehension from his voice. She looked up at him, her eyes finally meeting his, her expression fierce. "I don't think you are stupid. I think _I'm_ stupid," she admitted with a sigh, pushing away from him and sitting up. She brought her legs up and crossed them, leaning back against the wall for support.

Nathaniel took a deep, steadying breath, knowing that if he didn't speak his mind, the same problem would only come up again and again. She had taught him that much in her quest for truth. He sat up, nervous, resting a hand on her knee. He spoke quietly, from his heart, something still new for him.

"You aren't stupid either, Anya. You're one of the most intelligent people I know, and your grasp of both strategy and politics are enviable. But you are blind in one area and you became that way after Anders nearly killed you. You are afraid to trust your people and until you let go of that fear, we'll keep coming to this same spot and tripping over it. I don't blame you, but we need to move beyond it. Tell me how I can help you and we'll work together. I want this to work," he finished, removing his hand from her knee to cup her cheek.

"I want _us_ to work," he concluded, leaning in to kiss her.

He watched the emotions play across her face: denial, hurt, anger, and, finally, realization. Her eyes widened and she scooted off the bed to stand, her back to him as she wrestled with the truth. He slid off the bed, wrapping the blanket around his waist and moving to stand behind her, without touching her. He would stand there until she was ready to face him, to trust him. No matter how long it took.

He was a patient man.


	32. Respite

**A/N: **_This chapter is another of those pesky fillers while everyone gets into place for the confrontation with the Arishok, which will begin in the next chapter...hopefully.  
>Several days pass over the course of the chapter. Also, the end is NSFW.<br>Thank you, Lisa, for all your insights and help!_

**Respite**

Fallon didn't get a bath that first night as Anders had planned. By the time a pallet was made up, and he'd eaten his fill of food, the boy had collapsed onto the pallet and given a satisfied belch before falling asleep. Anders shuddered at how filthy the boy was, but he'd been that way for awhile so another day wouldn't hurt. He envied how deeply the boy slumbered, curled around the straw-stuffed pillow, untouched by his new surroundings or his old life, the world-weary look in his eyes shuttered in sleep.

Assuring himself that Fallon was truly asleep, Anders stepped out of the clinic and locked the door behind him. He wouldn't let any harm come to a boy who'd obviously been harmed enough in his young life. He didn't question why he felt such an affinity with Fallon, but the peace in doing so made it worthwhile, no matter the outcome. As he made his way to the shops in Lowtown, he promised himself that he would not add to the boy's burdens.

He entered Lirene's Ferelden Imports and began to gather the items Fallon needed: a brush, several sets of smalls, two heavy linen shirts and coarse woolen trousers, socks and sturdy boots, a soft cotton nightshirt. He added toiletries and a small pen-knife to the growing pile.

Lirene, watching him from behind the counter, shook her head in resignation. "You can't care for them all, Anders," she chided softly.

"I know, and neither can you but that doesn't stop us from trying," he agreed, giving her a half-hearted smile.

He gathered the parcels and retraced his steps, entering the clinic as silently as he'd left. The boy was still sleeping, drool dampening his pillow, breath sonorous as his chest rose and fell. Deciding the bath could definitely wait, Anders crawled onto his cot and closed his eyes, falling asleep moments later.

An intrepid shaft of sunlight somehow made its way into the back room of the clinic and Anders blinked awake. Had he only dreamt the boy? He struggled to stand, stretching stiff shoulders, surprised at how deeply he had slept, at how quiet it was in his head. He refused to question why.

After a cup of tea, he set about preparing a bath for the filthy orphan now in his care. When all was ready, he knelt beside the pallet, gently shaking Fallon's thin shoulder. "Time to get clean," he announced in a low whisper.

The boy sat up, hands curled into fists, eyes wild. "Don't touch me or I'll gut you," he hissed, bringing his fists up.

"Yes, I'm sure you will, but not until you're clean."

Fallon rubbed his eyes with his fists and then nodded, looking around and spying a large tin tub set close to the brazier. "'Ere now, I'm not gettin' into that!" he protested, scuttling away.

"Yes, you are, even if I have to toss you in."

They stared at each other and Anders was ready to stop him if he ran, but, with a sly smile, Fallon shrugged his shoulders, shucked his rags and stepped into the tub. "Just don't stand around looking; can't abide them peepers."

Shuddering, Anders wondered just what the young boy had endured in his short life. Sympathetic to Fallon's fears, Anders turned his back to the tin tub, listening to the boy splashing about. When he was sure the boy was as clean as the now filthy water would allow, he spoke in a calm voice.

"I'm just going to turn around now and look for injuries. That's all."

"You'd best not be lying."

Surveying the boy's pale skin, pink from scrubbing, he saw faint bruises circling his wrists. Anger and disgust stirred a memory, bringing with it sadness. He'd obviously been mistreated recently and Anders carefully wrapped a healing spell around Fallon's wrists.

"I think I like magic. It tickles," the boy claimed with a grin that had lost a bit of the feral cunning in his earlier smiles.

So many words came to Anders in that moment before he spoke. Magic tickled? It was a curse, but only because the Chantry made it so. It was the most destructive force in the world if one wasn't careful. It had changed his life in ways too numerous to recount. It had cost him the only woman he'd ever loved. So many words went unspoken because the day held a fragile peace to it that Anders didn't want to destroy. Instead, he stood and went to get Fallon's new clothes.

"It doesn't always tickle, and it rarely ends well for the mage," was all he said, trying to keep his voice carefully devoid of the bitterness he felt, handing the clothes to Fallon before going to the brazier and setting the kettle on the grate again.

"Is Annie your wife?"

Anders's hands, busy making another cup of tea, jerked, spilling loose tea leaves onto the table. He clasped his hands tightly, stilling them, afraid he would frighten the young boy. "Where did you hear that name?" he asked quietly.

"You called it out a bunch of times last night. Woke me up, it did."

Without turning to look at Fallon, he asked as nonchalantly as he could, "Did I say anything else besides her name?"

"Nothing as what I could understand but you sounded that bit of strange. So who is Annie? Oh, you're Anders. Is that your nickname? That'd be right fun, that would."

Anders searched for something clever or funny to say, something that would ease the knot in his stomach and make the young boy laugh, but nothing came to mind. "Annie was someone I knew a long time ago, when I was a different person," he said at last.

And the words seared into his bones, branding him with the truth of it. He waited for Vengeance to mock him or Justice to condemn him, but his head remained silent and for a brief time, he allowed himself to believe he was free.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Night began to paint the sky with dark brush strokes; the newly-washed sun turning to molten gold as it slipped inexorably into the sea. Anya stood at the rail entranced by the beauty stretched before her like a painter's masterpiece. Her gaze fell to the benign sea, a pale blue falling into shadow as night made its intentions known; the wind as soft as a mother's reassuring whisper, making the sails billow and murmur in reply. The violet wall of clouds continued their relentless journey south, leaving the air tangy and fragrant.

She and Nathaniel had made no progress during their talk, both trying to find words that hadn't already been spoken, and, when the silence had become unbearable, she had finally left their cabin for a bit of fresh air in the hope of settling her mind. There were too many thoughts tumbling around in her head, both personal and professional, and she felt an ache forming between her shoulders from the tension.

She hadn't believed their captive when he'd claimed that Celene was responsible for the attack, but it begged the question of who was determined to cause her harm, but not kill her. The family ties within the ruling family of Orlais were complex and convoluted. There were several cousins that detested her personally, and even more who were jealous of her relationship with Celene. She sighed, trying to eliminate the least likely suspects and her thoughts kept returning to one cousin, in particular; the one Celene claimed was trying to end her reign. Etienne. Was it him? Possibly. Probably. She had witnessed, firsthand, his clever and devious machinations during her time at court.

Etienne's position within the family, and the empress's court, would have made it easy for him to discover what Celene had asked of her. He'd had years to build up a system of spies within the Imperial Palace. While serving Celene, Anya had discovered his network was funded, in part, by Gaspard de Chalons, a wealthy and influential member of Orlesian aristocracy. He was also in line for the throne, another cousin who was much too sly to openly challenge Celene, or take any stand that might not endear him to the masses. He was intelligent enough to realize that if the Orlesian people wanted something badly enough, they would find a way to obtain it. Logically following that thought led her to wonder if it was de Chalons, rather than Etienne, who was actually behind the attacks.

Her nerves were stretched by the political maneuvering and posturing. Whoever was behind the attacks wanted to discredit her, disarm her. Why? So the Divine would deny her request to remand Anora to Ferelden for trial? And were those plotting to destroy her also the same people turning the Wardens into political pawns? What was the purpose of that? What would the Wardens do with that kind of power? Why would they need that kind of power if their only duty was to protect Thedas from Blights and the darkspawn? There was something she was missing, some connection she had yet to make, and she sighed in frustration, letting her gaze, and mind, wander.

Silence gave way to the raucous din of seagulls and terns, distracting her further. Someone had tossed out the scraps of their earlier meal and the birds were thrilled. As she stood looking out at the sea, she felt the familiar pull of blood in her veins, the low hum of the taint singing as it felt the presence of other tainted blood. There was nothing overt or intense, just a vibration that reassured her a fellow Warden was nearby.

"We'll be in Kirkwall by tomorrow night. Are you prepared for what might await us?" Nathaniel asked quietly, coming to stand behind her.

Was she? She hadn't wanted to become embroiled in political intrigue or the twisted plots of the Orlesian court, but now that she was, she would find a way to extricate herself and protect those under her care. If it meant spending most of her time tracking down those who threatened their safety, so be it.

A cough brought her back to Nathaniel's original question and it took her a minute to refocus. Was she prepared for whatever might find them in Kirkwall? Turning to face him, Anya studied Nathaniel. He stood silently, an energy riding just below the calm façade, his grey eyes sharp and assessing. He was waiting for her to say something, and she knew he would wait as long as necessary. Tension eased from her shoulders, a smile hovering at the edges of her mouth.

"I keep thinking that I've finally healed, only to be reminded I have not," she admitted wryly. "I suspect I'll be back in this same place in the near future. I want to swear I won't behave like a fool, but I've thought that before, haven't I?"

"The same can be said of me."

She held her hand out in invitation and he joined her at the rail. "You know," she began with a chuckle, "When I first came out here, I was thinking of our plunge into the ocean the last time we were in Kirkwall. I..." she hesitated before blowing out a nervous breath and continuing, "I need to tell you that I don't regret any of it," she told him, lacing her fingers with his.

"Not even the fights? The missteps?" he asked, his voice stark. She knew, somehow, that his question was connected to the relationship between his parents, and his dread of making the same mistakes, of somehow becoming his father. She shook her head, staring out at the tranquil sea.

"Not _any_ of it," she reiterated, moving close enough that their bodies touched, finding peace in the contact. "I know we've both made mistakes, Nathaniel, and there will be more because, as much as I try to pretend otherwise, I'm still recovering from Anders's attack, and I think you are too. Maker knows how long it will be before all the scars are finally gone, or maybe they never will be," she said and paused, freeing her hand to scrub at her face.

"Andraste's grace, it feels as though I've said those same words over and over again," she admitted with a faint smile, feeling suddenly unsure, but forcing herself to continue. "And each time I said them I was convinced that it would be the last time I'd _need_ to say them. Yet here I am, doing just that. Again."

She looked out to the water again, drawing strength from its constancy. "I remember thinking that it was so peaceful when I was sinking down to the bottom of the sea; so incredibly quiet and serene. I just fell deeper and deeper and I thought that would make everything better…I thought that's what I wanted." Her voice lowered and she felt the weight of the truth pressing on her. "I wasn't afraid, at least not of dying, I just felt this amazing calm."

She took a deep breath, letting it out in a rush. "It was living that frightened me, facing the pain of living that scared me. Afraid of the pain we inflict on those we love, however unintentional. I wasn't sure I was strong enough to bear hurting anyone, or being hurt. But then I thought of you and it struck me that peace wasn't what I wanted at all, _you_ were. And you still are, even if I'm making a complete mess of everything."

She fell silent, giving Nathaniel time to take in what she'd said, waiting for him to speak. When he did, his voice was so low she had to strain to hear it. "I understand that allure, when peace is more tempting than pain."

He paused, much as she had earlier, as if collecting his thoughts. When he continued, she heard the raw emotion in his voice. "My mother told me that even in the very worst of times there was always something worth living for, if we just searched long enough to find it. Two months later she was dead. I wonder now if she just couldn't find anything worth living for any longer."

Anya slipped her arm around his waist, wordlessly offering comfort. There was nothing she could say to mitigate the pain he felt as he witnessed the agonizing struggle of his mother as she was abused by his father. He had told her once that he'd never been sure if his mother had died of natural causes, killed herself, or been murdered by his father, but from his words, it seemed as though Nathaniel believed she had taken her own life.

She shivered as the sun finally slipped silently into the sea, and the last pale shafts of its light merged with the water. "I trust you don't feel that allure now?" she asked, glancing sideways at him, his features softened by the growing dusk.

"Trust," he began and stopped, clearing his throat. "_Do_ you trust me?" he asked, his voice roughened by urgency, as if that question was the most important one he'd ever asked.

"Yes," she replied without hesitation and she knew it was true. Her mistrust was not in Nathaniel, it was herself she questioned constantly and it was her fear of failing that kept her from sharing her plans with her men. Why had it taken another argument to be shown just what she was doing again? Would she ever learn to trust herself as completely as she had before Anders? Maker, she was tired of going around in the same circle, over and over again. How often was she going to travel that same path? How many more times would they argue because they _both_ traveled that path?

They would muddle through it because they wanted to share their lives with each other. Somehow they would continue talking about the same issues until they were no longer issues, because she was not about to let Anders become the victor. Nor was she willing to give up on the man who had become so important to her own happiness.

Glancing at Nathaniel, her smile reasserted itself, coming to sit on her lips gently, and she welcomed it like she welcomed the radiant stars shyly gathering in the darkening sky. It didn't matter, at least not now. "I trust you with the most important thing I own, Nathaniel. My heart."

A spring uncoiled in him and she felt him relax, an answering smile plucking at his lips before they found hers in a light, tender kiss that quickly turned heated. With a shuddering breath, he stepped back. "Do you believe me when I tell you that your physical scars don't detract from your beauty?" he asked.

She believed he wanted to believe it, but she hesitated too long before saying, "Try telling me that and we'll see."

"Tell you?" he asked, and the frustration was evident in his voice. "Maker, Anya, I have told you countless times." He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging one of his braids. "Maybe a demonstration will help you understand," he added with a low growl that resonated in the evening air and made her heart clamor in her chest.

Without another word, he scooped her into his arms and carried her back to their cabin. She fumbled with the door and then pushed it open. He kicked it shut before setting her on her feet again. A flare of light temporarily blinded her and she blinked.

"I don't think we need any lamps lit," she said against the sudden flutter in her stomach.

"Yes, we do," he replied quietly and firmly.

**~~~oOo~~~**

They reached Kirkwall late in the afternoon. Margaret ached from the long walk and she paused at the foot of the long staircase leading to Hightown. She had decided not to stop and change out of her robes, and she was using her staff as a walking stick.

"Margaret, I urge caution," Sebastian began and she waved him into silence.

"I know, Sebastian, I know. I'll wait to speak to the grand cleric until tomorrow. Perhaps, after a bath and a good night's sleep, I will be more reasonable about being sent all over the Free Marches in search of the viscount's son."

"I am certain Elthina would _never_ be a party to such goings on," he reassured her yet again.

The entire trip back had been a series of reasoned arguments of why Elthina couldn't possibly be involved with any nefarious plots. No matter how many times she explained she only wished to speak to the grand cleric to determine if she was aware of what was happening within her own chantry, he still believed she would storm in and demand blood.

Not that she blamed him. She was exhausted from the battles they'd had to fight and the lack of sleep, not to mention the frustration she felt at not having any answers to the multitude of questions that pounded at her temples until she had a near blinding head-ache. Her reassurances had been less than fulsome and her irritation had been obvious to even the most obtuse.

There was a general disquiet in the air when they arrived in the city, especially noticeable in Hightown. The streets were far too quiet, even the crickets and birds seemed subdued, and the guards patrolling the streets were too tense, too on edge for Margaret's comfort. Had something happened while they were gone?

She glanced around the quiet streets and felt her own unease growing. Nobles who had departed the city in fear of a Qunari uprising remained away, and many mansions and estates were dark, their windows shuttered. She saw the warm glow of lights from the Amell estate spilling in golden hues across the pale granite stones, and found her steps quickening.

"Please inform Her Grace that I will call on her in the morning, Sebastian."

"I will, Margaret. I'll be there too, if you've no objection."

She looked at the handsome prince, so naïve and child-like at times, yet fiercely loyal and protective of those he cared about, and found herself smiling at him. "I'd welcome your presence," she stated honestly.

"I shall attend as well," Fenris added.

She nodded and then gave them all a brief farewell before stepping into the mansion and closing the door behind her. She leaned against the familiar oak paneling of the door, grateful to be home.

"Welcome back, messere," Bodahn greeted, stepping forward to relieve her of her pack and staff.

"Thank you, Bodahn. It's wonderful to be home."

"Shall I have a bath prepared?"

She smiled her affection. "That would be lovely. And a tray brought up would be welcome, if it's not too much of a bother."

"I'll get that for you, Lady Margaret," Orana said, bobbing a curtsy.

"Thank you. Is all well here?" she asked, moving to the staircase.

"Trouble, I'll wager, messere. The city guards have increased their patrols and there is unrest in the alienage, from what your Dalish friend says."

"Merrill's been here?"

"She came looking for you yesterday, seemed troubled but wouldn't stay when I told her you were out."

Margaret frowned as her sense of duty pushed aside her desire for food, a bath and an early night. "Anything else?" she asked.

"I haven't seen Messere Anders since you left."

Her frown deepened and she hesitated, her hand on the banister. "Not even for meals?"

"No, messere."

Merrill upset, Anders missing, and the general disquiet that blanketed the city, made Margaret's pounding head-ache increase its tempo. What if Anders had been caught by the templars? What if Merrill had known about it and come to her for help? What if…

A sharp rap at the door interrupted her thoughts and she moved quickly to answer it, relieved by the distraction it provided. Fenris smiled at her as she ushered him in and she smiled in response, but her mind was already returning to the mystery of Merrill's visit and Anders's disappearance.

She should check on both of them. Her bath, her food, all of it would have to wait. She quietly explained the situation to Fenris as she led him into the kitchen. "I need to check on them. There's no telling what scrape poor Merrill's fallen into."

"Margaret, they have survived this long without you and they will continue to do so. Perhaps we have done them a disservice by so readily assisting them."

She picked up an apple, glossy red in the bright lights of the kitchen, and bit into it, her stomach rumbling in relief. "That's what friends and family do, Fenris," she said around another mouthful of crisp apple.

"There are times when friends let friends fail so they can learn how to pick themselves up," Fenris replied with quiet assurance.

"But I really sh…"

"You should rest. You are fatigued from our excursions and I would ask how you would assist them when you are too exhausted to think?"

He was right, of course. It was her guilt that dictated she drop everything else in order to check on the safety of her friends. So many times in her life she had not been where she needed to be and others had suffered for it. But she was almost numb with fatigue and she allowed herself to be talked out of going in search of Merrill and Anders.

Instead, she sat down at the cutting table and watched as Bodahn and Orana prepared a feast of cold meats and cheeses, adding fresh bread and dollops of pale butter to the heaping plate.

"If it will set your mind at ease, I shall endeavor to ascertain information from Aveline once we have eaten," Fenris added, softening his formal words with a quick touch of fingers to her cheek while Bodahn and Orana were busy pouring wine and arranging fruit on a large plate.

She smiled, amused that he slept in her bed, though he rarely spent the entire night, and yet he pretended as though none of the other occupants of the house knew. It provoked a tenderness in her that further eased her concerns.

"Thank you, Fenris, I would appreciate that. I know it's probably nothing, but I can't help but worry about those two. I should probably bring them both with me wherever I go," she added, laughing outright at Fenris's horrified expression.

After they'd eaten every scrap of food on the platter, and made their way through most of the fruit, Fenris stood. "You are in need of a bath and bed. I will talk with Aveline and investigate further if necessary, but I will not wake you unless there is need."

Margaret wanted to say something outrageous that would make him blush, but merely nodded and watched as he strode out of the room, wondering where he got his strength from. The meal had only served to make her acutely aware of how tired she was.

"Your bath is ready, Lady Margaret."

It was as she was drifting in the warm water, scented with attar of roses, that she wondered how Carver was and if he would find it in his heart to forgive her for their mother's death. He had every right to hate her, but Maker, she hoped he wouldn't, that he would somehow help her let go of the burden instead.

Clean and dry, wrapped in her robe, she crawled onto her bed, determined to stay awake until Fenris returned but her eyelids refused to cooperate and she sighed, giving in to sleep.

Sometime later, she felt the reassuring warmth of Fenris as he settled beside her. "All is well," he whispered, pulling her close.

"Thank you," she murmured, closing her eyes again.

**~~~oOo~~~**

He held her gaze, his fingers gently unlacing her woolen trousers. "They are a part of you, Anya, just as your smile is, just as your fingers are," he whispered, bringing her fingers to his lips and delicately kissing and licking each one, his eyes never leaving hers. He heard the rapid inhalation as he pulled a finger into his mouth, sucking gently, before releasing it.

He knelt before her, sliding her trousers and smalls over her gently rounded hips and down her long legs, his mouth coming to rest on the scar that ran along her thigh. He kissed the length of it, and then back up, before looking up at her.

"Look at me, Anya," he whispered. "Watch me and see that I don't find these scars anything but a part of the beautiful woman I love," he instructed as he feathered another series of kisses along her scar. He felt her trembling, felt her fingers thread through his hair.

He traced the parallel scars that ran along her shin, his fingers skimming lightly against the pink flesh that was still healing and would never be smooth again. She had survived an ordeal that would break most people, survived wounds that would have killed most people and he loved the strength that had kept her alive. How could she not see the scars as anything but a victory?

His fingers moved up until his hands rested on her hips, one twisted and the other flawless, yet both a part of her. His lips followed his fingers and he felt her shudder again, felt her fingers tighten and scrape against his scalp. He moved up, trailing his fingers around her misshapen hip, kneading the flesh, his breath hissing from him as his desire leapt to life. Maker, her skin was like warm silk, he thought, continuing to trace every contour, every curve and dip of her, to memorize every detail of her, to show her how perfect she was in his eyes.

"Beautiful," he whispered, his fingers trailing down until they drifted across her scar once more. "All of you."

She shuddered again and he heard her gasp as his lips sought each scar, every imperfection she lamented. Her breathing changed, caught, deepened and his fingers traveled slowly down to tease her. She shifted, her hips rotating, pushing forward as she whispered his name, her voice husky.

He stood and began to hastily strip, the need to feel her against his skin burning hotly in his blood. Her fingers joined his, synchronizing with his movements as they worked in tandem to rid him of his clothes. When the last piece hit the floor, he pulled her gently into his arms and met her eyes again.

"Do you trust me?" he whispered, waiting patiently for her answer.

He saw it in her gaze first, then in the smile that curved her lips. "Yes."

"Do you believe me when I tell you that you are beautiful, that your scars are a part of that beauty?"

"Yes."

He eased her onto the bed and hovered above her. "Do you believe me when I tell you how much I desire you?" he asked, his voice low and rasping with need.

"Yes," she whispered, trembling beneath him, her blue eyes bright with unshed tears. "Yes," she whispered again and reached up to pull him closer.

The gentleness fell away from them both and she pulled him closer, her mouth fierce and demanding, her legs wrapping around his to bring him closer. He groaned when her fingernails dragged against his skin, her voice urging him on, her hips grinding against him. He pushed into her with one long stroke, closing his eyes at the rush of sensation, stilling until he caught his breath again.

His pace quickened and he rolled them over, never leaving her, slowing only long enough for them to adjust and then she was bucking, riding him, her head tossed back, hair flowing down her back, dark red against her pale skin. His name fell from her lips, becoming more urgent as he continued to thrust into her, until she cried out and shuddered, her walls quivering around him. His pace became graceless and hurried as his climax rushed toward him and then crashed over him.

She collapsed on top of him, face hidden by the sweep of her hair, but he rolled them over again, gazing down at her. Her skin was rosy and her eyes dark. "You're staring," she complained, her lips twitching upwards and he found himself smiling.

"I am, and will continue to every chance I get," he agreed, dipping to capture her lips.

They floated quietly for long moments and then he rose, knowing there was one more act he had to complete if she was ever to be completely at ease with him. He padded barefoot and naked across the small room and picked up the Iron Crucible.

"Oh no, Nathaniel…" she began but he cut her off with a shake of his head.

"Allow me, Anya."

He bent to his task, glancing at her only once as he fitted the leather straps together. "If it's too tight, let me know."

"It's – it's fine, Nathaniel," she whispered, her voice sounding strained.

When he'd finished, he carefully settled beside her again, taking her in his arms, surprised to find tears slipping quietly from the corners of her closed eyes. His heart thudded to a stop, felt as if it had plunged into his stomach. Had he only made her feel worse, after all? Had his desire to make her see herself as he saw her only served to make her see her flaws? Would he ever understand the complex creature in his arms?

"Anya?"

"I believe," she said, her voice thick with her tears. "And I thank you for this gift."

Her words, and the warmth and love in them, stayed with him long after she had drifted into sleep.


	33. Dangerous Games

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for your quick beta and especially for your very sound advice. You rock!  
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**Dangerous Games**

Nathaniel sighed in his sleep, his breath ruffling Anya's hair. She nestled closer, reluctantly loosening her hold on sleep. She knew she should rise, but was content to stay in Nathaniel's arms a few moments longer. The coming days would be difficult and it was impossible to know when they would be able to steal moments alone. She moved carefully, unwilling to wake Nathaniel. He wore a look of peace, his muscles relaxed, a faint smile hovering on his lips.

Easing off the bed, she stood, testing her legs, shifting her weight slightly to accommodate her brace, and shuffled as quietly as she could to the small trunk wedged between a desk and the wall of the cabin. Bending down to open it, the Iron Crucible let out a shriek of metal scraping metal as she bent her knees and she stopped, appalled by the noise.

"Sneaking is definitely out of the question with that, I see," Nathaniel said in amusement. She glanced over her shoulder to see him leaning on his elbow, a warm smile curving his lips.

"How do you know it wasn't my plan all along? Perhaps I woke you so I could have my wicked way with you."

"From over there?"

"I have to find the rope first."

Nathaniel's eyebrows rose at her remark and his smile gave way to a feral grin that made her stomach dip. She continued rummaging through the travel trunk until she found what she was looking for and stood up, the medicinal balm Flynne had made for her in hand.

"This continues to look promising," Nathaniel murmured, eying the balm.

Her blush settled contentedly on her cheeks as she limped back to the bed and sat down. "If you promise to behave, you can watch."

"A promise I'm not sure I can keep," he whispered, arranging himself beside her and exposing an expanse of well-shaped chest and torso in the process. His bare leg brushed against hers and she shivered.

It would be so easy to crawl back into bed, to spend an hour or two alone, just the two of them. She leaned against him, savoring the close companionship, wishing for just a brief moment that their lives were different, that they had no worries, no commitments, just an endless amount of time. But duty was already pressing against her chest, and she set the jar aside in order to remove her brace.

"Allow me," Nathaniel whispered, his breath a warm brush of wind against the shell of her ear.

It wasn't fear or shame that made her shake her head, but the intrusion of reality. "If you help me we won't be on deck for another hour."

"I don't have a problem with that."

"But I do. I'm starving, I want to have a meeting to go over our plans one more time, perhaps even get some archery practice in as well."

"I'll be most happy to fill your quiver, my lady."

Her fingers, working the knots out of the leather straps, trembled and her stomach dipped again. "Nathaniel Howe, you are not making this any easier."

"And you are making it harder," he replied, surprising a laugh from her.

"Is this how you came to be called Naughty Nate?" she asked, arching a brow at him.

It was Nathaniel's turn to blush, a faint pink tint barely visible in the dim light of the cabin. She returned to her work and set the brace aside before picking up the jar once again. She began to massage the balm into her aching muscles. Nathaniel watched intently, as if memorizing every move of her fingers and she found her blush returning at his scrutiny.

"If you really want to help, you can fetch some fresh water from the rain barrel."

"Reduced to a mere servant's status, now you've finished with me?" he asked mischievously and she laughed again.

Nathaniel's playful mood was a rare gift, and the temptation to set aside her duties was strong, but she could hear the sound of sailors calling out, knew that the day's end would bring them to Kirkwall, and she wanted to be prepared for whatever met them when they arrived. She moved away from him reluctantly, reaching for her clothes.

"It is such a burden being you, isn't it?" she replied dryly.

Twenty minutes later, washed, hair neatly braided, and dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, Anya made her way to the galley for a cup of tea, dried apricots and hardtack. The cook, an gnarled old sailor with iron grey hair and a toothy smile, spoke up. "We're makin' time, Commander. I'll be that surprised what we don't hit the docks afore the sun sets, the winds be uncommon fresh. If I was a bettin' man, I'd toss a copper or two down."

She returned his smile and thanked him, wandering out on deck still chewing on the hardtack. Fresh and brisk, the wind whipped the Warden banners atop the masts, making them snap smartly. Anya glanced up at the silver griffons on the deep blue background and wondered if they would be attacked again. Anyone who knew she was the Arlessa of Amaranthine also knew that she was the Warden Commander. Of course there was no way for another ship to know _which_ Warden Commander was aboard the vessel. Not knowing the reason behind the attacks made it nearly impossible to discover who the attackers were. But perhaps there was a way to draw them out, she thought with a grim smile, going in search of her Wardens.

Flynne was on the foredeck, lounging against a large crate, chatting with Nathaniel. "Where is Carver? I've looked all over for him."

"If you didn't look up, you didn't look hard enough," was Flynne's enigmatic reply. He grinned in answer to her slight frown, and pointed up. She tilted her head back and looked up at the clear blue sky, white clouds sailing above the ship with graceful ease.

"Yoho, Commander!" yelled Carver and she turned her head slightly, bringing her hand up to shade her eyes. He was in the main top-castle, waving wildly. Her heart plummeted to her toes as she watched him swing out of the confined space, scrambling down the mast rigging like a monkey she'd once seen in the Imperial zoo.

He dropped to the deck and gave her a cheeky grin. "If I ever get tired of being a Grey Warden, I think I'll take to the sea," he enthused, his boyish fervor contagious. She found herself, rather than scolding him for putting himself in danger, grinning in reply. His windburned skin was dark red, his hair tousled by the sharp wind; he looked happy and she couldn't bring herself to deny him those moments. She knew how fleeting happiness could be.

The Wardens gathered in the captain's cabin and if the others felt squeamish about using a dead man's quarters, they kept it to themselves, for which Anya was grateful. "You're all to wear your Warden armor when you disembark. Nathaniel, you're to wear your dark Warden leathers as I don't want anyone to see you leave initially. You can scout out the area and find your contact, see what information they might have. We'll wait until your return to go ashore. Can you stay to the shadows as you disembark?"

He raised a brow and his smile was dry. "I think I can manage that, Commander."

Next, Anya turned to Carver. "Have you decided whether to see your sister or not?"

He met her eyes and then dropped his gaze, the glow of happiness that had emanated from him earlier dimming. "I'm not sure," he replied, exhaling a long breath.

"You've only to say the word and it will be done," she offered softly.

Carver nodded before shaking his head, confusion clear in his expression. "Maybe."

She nodded once and began to speak again, her voice as brisk and steady as the wind guiding the ship. "The Wardens aren't permitted to have a compound in Kirkwall. Perrin Threnhold, the former viscount, determined they were a threat to his reign. A pity he didn't consider the templars as the real threat. However, Warden Commander Stroud does keep a house in Lowtown. It might be best if we stay there."

"Will Stroud and the others be there?"

Anya shrugged, glancing at Flynne as she answered his question. "He's headquartered in Ansburg, but is seldom there. He prefers to leave his Second in charge and stay in the field. But even if he isn't there we all have the key to enter the place."

Carver, looking confused, rubbed the back of his head and asked, "What key? I don't remember getting a key. Did you get one, Flynne?"

"Not me. I'm guessing it has something to do with our blood, though. The Grey Wardens love their blood magic."

"Exactly so. There are two locks on the door, both are ciphers and respond only to Warden blood. There is also a riddle to answer, but it's easy enough to figure out if you've been paying attention to your Warden history lessons."

"No worries, right Carver? Or were you sleeping during the lessons?" Flynne asked with a snicker.

"Stick to casting and let me do the thinking, magey. You'll live longer that way," Carver retorted.

"An intelligent warrior? Ha! No such thing. But don't worry, Carver, I'll make sure you stay safe."

"You two boys stop squabbling and tell me who killed the Archdemon, Andoral, to end the fourth Blight."

Both men frowned in contemplation, glancing at each other before staring down at the floor, trying to recall the young elf's name. Nathaniel was sitting quietly, head bent as he knotted a length of rope, a smirk not quite hidden by the fall of his hair as it brushed his cheek.

"Garahel!" Carver shouted in triumph, slapping his leg. He shook his head, feigning pity. "Poor Blighter's a mage, can't expect him to be clever too."

"What is it you're so fond of saying? Oh, right. Shut it, dolt."

Clearing her throat, Anya unfolded a city map of Kirkwall and, pointing to an area of Lowtown, traced along several streets before tapping a dot. "This is the house. If you become separated from us, make your way there."

"I don't mean offense, Commander, but your red hair and limp won't go unnoticed, no matter what. Do you want us to be that obvious, then?"

To her surprise, the words didn't hurt as they once might have and she found herself smiling. "Exactly so, Carver, I want us to be seen. I want whoever ordered the attack to know that the Wardens prevailed. I want them to know that I am still very much alive. I want it known that one of the captives talked and I want them to know we are coming for them."

Stunned silence greeted her cheerfully spoken plan. Anya continued, "I thought about hiding in a shipping crate, or trying to swim to shore before the ship reached Kirkwall, but what purpose would it serve? They need to know that their plan failed, that I'm alive, and that I won't be intimidated by them. I won't rest until this is over."

"And if they kill you?" Flynne asked bluntly, his tone as grim as the set of his mouth.

"They have yet to manage it, Flynne, and I don't think they will now. In fact, I'd guess that my death is not their goal. My humiliation, perhaps, but not my death. Besides, this is an opportunity to force them into the open and we'd be foolish not to take advantage of it."

"I'll have my contact station some of their people along the wharves," Nathaniel added, and she flashed him a grateful smile.

"So, that's it. Any questions?"

"This seems like a very dangerous game to play with unknown assailants, Commander," Flynne remarked.

"It's always dangerous to play the Grand Game, Flynne, but sometimes it's the only option."

Nathaniel remained behind after Flynne and Carver departed and she braced herself, waiting for him to argue with her. He tossed the rope aside and stood, a faint smile softening his austere features.

"Is there something you wish to say?" she asked, unable to keep the wariness from her tone.

"Nothing comes to mind."

"Oh. Well, I'm glad," she mumbled, disconcerted and off-balance by his calm acceptance of her plan. She felt she should acknowledge it in some way but was unable to think of anything to say.

"Thank you, Nathaniel."

Perhaps they could work through their problems after all. Provided they survived their stay in Kirkwall. She smiled bleakly at the thought.

**~~~~oOo~~~~**

Margaret rose early, the sky still pearl grey as it waited for the sun's arrival. Fenris was gone, but he'd left a painstakingly crafted note on her pillow, the script cramped, made by a hand still learning to create letters and turn them into words. He would meet her at the chantry by eight bells.

She would not have time to visit Anders or Merrill before her meeting with Grand Cleric Elthina, but she was determined to do so immediately afterwards. She dressed in a somber grey gown, cinched by a black girdle. She slipped a small dagger into the deep pocket of her gown, letting her fingers curl around the dainty hilt. Anya Caron had insisted she keep the dagger with her at all times, as a precaution against Anders, and Margaret had found she'd needed it on several occasions, and she also found having it with her helped her feel connected to Carver.

Sebastian and Fenris were standing in the square just below the chantry. The chantry's soaring towers cast long shadows across the pale grey stones as the last note of the bells echoed into silence. Sebastian stepped forward and offered his arm. His armor looked freshly polished and his smile was kind, for all that his eyes held a stubborn glint.

"Grand Cleric Elthina is waiting for you in her study," he explained and led her up the steps and into the cool dark narthex. She took her cloak off and hung it on one of the hooks provided along the back wall, and then took his arm again.

"Good morning, Fenris," she greeted over her shoulder as they made their way up the aisle of the nave. Fenris had hung back to speak with a young elf who had recently become an initiate.

"Margaret," he replied gruffly.

It was a start. At least he called her Margaret in public as often as he called her Hawke. She said nothing else as they mounted the stairs and entered a large room with stark white walls. At the far end of the room was a grouping of hardwood chairs and a plain silver tea service that sat on a low table. An elderly woman, her face creased in a welcoming smile sat in one of the chairs.

Grand Cleric Elthina's pale grey eyes fixed on Margaret and her face softened. "You are looking well, child."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"The death of a loved one is never easy, but be assured your mother rests at the side of the Maker."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"Now, Sebastian tells me that you wish to talk about Mother Petrice?"

Taking a deep breath, Margaret explained her concerns and the reasons for them. "Old Fagan had no reason to lie. He fought to stay alive long enough to tell us that it was a sister from this chantry that was walking with Saemus just before he went missing. Mother Petrice fit the description he gave and I have had enough dealings with her to know she harbors a deep distrust of the Arishok and the Qunari. I would like to question her."

"Saemus is still missing, but Mother Petrice has been here for the past three days, child. I don't see how she could be involved but I will speak to her on this matter, rest assured. In the meantime, I will continue to pray that peace reigns in the city."

Margaret felt the muscles in her jaws twitch. It was more than time for the pious, ineffective woman to step down. She was so busy trying to maintain the peace between so many different factions that she was unable to control any of them, least of all her own people. Sebastian cleared his throat and Margaret realized she was expected to thank the grand cleric and leave. She did so with alacrity, knowing if she tarried that she would speak her mind. As it was she barely made it outside before she burst out with a strangled growl of frustration.

"She will be the one responsible if things come to a head and the Qunari start a war," she said, striding along the street. The men were scrambling to keep up with her and then jogged past her when she came to an abrupt halt.

"Sebastian, I want you to do me a favor."

Sebastian, a fine sheen of sweat appearing at the unexpected exertion, stopped and turned back to her. "Whatever you need, Hawke."

"I'll hold you to that. I want you to tell Mother Petrice that I want a private meeting with her tonight, in the chancel. Tell her – tell her I have had a change of heart and that I am greatly concerned with the recent news of people converting to the Qunari faith. Convince her of my sincerity. When that is arranged, ask Grand Cleric Elthina to assign her most trusted guards to the narthex. I want you to be there as well, but hidden in such a place that you will be able to hear our conversation. The grand cleric may not believe the veracity of my words, but I can't imagine her doubting yours."

"You wish to trap her into confessing her culpability. A brilliant, if dangerous, ruse," Fenris commented admiringly.

"A necessary ploy if we are to avert a war. I fear it may be too late, but we must use whatever means at our disposal to try and stop it. Will you do this for me, Sebastian?"

Looking less than pleased, but determined, Sebastian agreed. With a courtly bow, he took his leave of them to seek a private meeting with the grand cleric. Margaret started walking again, her steps taking her in the direction of the Great Stairs leading to Lowtown. Fenris walked beside her, lost in thought.

"If you will permit an observation?" he asked as they neared the stairs.

"Certainly, Fenris."

"You will need a champion at your side. There is every reason to suspect Mother Petrice travels with a templar guardian. Should this plan of yours fail, you will not be able to cast. I recommend I accompany you."

His words, formal and calmly spoken, touched Margaret deeply. He was correct: Mother Petrice rarely traveled without at least one, if not two, templars in tow. Her mana would be drained before she could cast a spell.

She refrained from touching Fenris, but she wanted to place her hand on his arm and stop him, to show how grateful she was for his counsel and his commitment. To embrace him. He would be horrified and humiliated were she to do so. She settled for a heartfelt, "Thank you, Fenris."

They continued to Merrill's in silence, entering the alienage a short time later. A number of guardsmen appeared to be searching the meager, shabby homes within the alienage. Margaret's pace quickened and she rapped sharply on Merrill's door.

"Oh thank the Creators. Hawke, this is just terrible. Terrible," Merrill whispered, her sweet voice shaking. She swung the door wide and closed it quickly as soon as Margaret and Fenris were safely inside.

"What is it, Merrill? What's going on here?"

"Some guardsmen have been…well, I'm not sure what exactly they've been up to, but I think they hurt a young elf and her brothers…well, they defended her. Oh, Hawke, you have to do something. Dozens of elves have left the alienage to join the Qun and more will follow if the guards continue to…well, do what it is they've been doing," the young Dalish elf explained, twisting her hands together, her voice shaking with emotion.

"Is this why you went to the mansion?"

"Yes, I thought maybe you could bring Aveline here to calm things, because she hates me, you see, thinks I'm silly and foolish, but she listens to you, Hawke. There will be trouble, I just know it."

An hour later, having done their best to calm Merrill and determine exactly what had occurred between the guardsmen and the elves, they left the alienage. The tension in the city was palpable, the air thick with sweat and fear and long simmering hatred. Margaret felt powerless to stop the course they were on, but she was determined to try.

"I'm going to check in with Anders. Would you speak with Aveline? She trusts you and respects your opinion on so many matters, I'm sure you can get her to appreciate how dangerous this situation is."

"Be careful, Margaret. I would ask that you take the underground passage to Anders's clinic if you feel compelled to seek him out."

"I will. Meet back at the mansion in an hour?"

"I shall be there."

She watched him disappear into the crowds before returning to the mansion. She changed into a robe that was imbued with magical runes and picked up a staff, wondering what she would find at the end of the passageway.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anders bent to scrub the last of the blood off the floor, the patient having recovered and left in the company of his relieved wife. He'd sent Fallon into the back rooms, unwilling to have the boy see him at work. Even though Fallon knew he was a mage, he hadn't made any mention of the fact and Anders preferred it that way. There was a certain relief in being seen as just a man like any other.

He washed up and went in search of the boy, who was sitting at the rough wooden table, trying to sound out words from the book Anders had set aside weeks ago. As soon as he saw Anders, he scrambled out of the chair and away, a sudden look of fear blazing in his eyes.

"It's all right, Fallon. I didn't realize you could read."

"Can't. Leastways, not much. But I learnt a bit here an' there."

Anders felt a rush of warmth and affection for the young boy. "I can teach you, if you like."

"I don' need yer help ta learn."

How many times had Anders uttered those same words over the course of his life? He schooled his face and nodded solemnly. "I'm sure you don't, but I can help you learn more quickly. I bet I can have you reading that book in no time."

"Eh? What'll ya want for the lessons?"

Anders smiled sadly at the suspicion the boy still harbored towards his motivations. Not that he blamed him. A boy as abused and mistreated as Fallon would take a long time to heal. Anders was determined to help him in any way he could.

_**A dangerous game you play, Anders. **_

Anders felt a jolt of anger and fear. Vengeance had been silent for days; peaceful days that had helped Anders regain his footing. He wasn't willing to give that up now, and somehow he felt that Fallon was inextricably linked to the sense of well-being he'd experienced since their first meeting.

**This isn't a game. I'm helping a boy in trouble. I'm a healer, it's my duty.**

_**Believe that if you must, Anders, but know that I will be watching**_.

"'Ere now, why'd you go all quiet-like?" Fallon asked loudly.

Anders shrugged, blinking several times to dispel the fear that twisted in his stomach and flowed into his blood. "Just thinking about what other books you might like to read," he lied, allowing a smile to stretch his lips, hoping it looked more sincere than it felt.

The bell above the clinic door jangled and he sighed. "If you're hungry, there's some fruit and cheese in the cooling cupboard."

Fallon nodded, giving him a cheeky grin, before closing the book. Anders shut the door behind him and stepped into the clinic. "Margaret, it's good to see you!" he said, his smile once again stretching his lips, but he knew it must seem strained. He was feeling unsettled by Vengeance's words, and her sudden appearance rattled him further.

"Anders, Bodahn was worried. He said you hadn't been home all week. Are you all right?"

"Never better. Just busy, but you know I enjoy that."

He noticed that her answering smile didn't quite reach her eyes. She was nervous around him, not that he blamed her. He'd given her very little reason to be at ease in his presence. But knowing she was uncomfortable served to strengthen his resolve to remain silent about Fallon. She wouldn't approve, or worse, she would try to take him away, insisting that she could better provide for him. He stepped away from the door and moved to the supply cabinet with deliberately casual steps. "How did the trip go?"

"It was a wild goose-chase. I think there will be trouble soon, Anders. Perhaps you should return to the mansion?"

Her words were carefully chosen, as if she was afraid to upset him. He felt a moment's anger and then it was gone and he smiled gently. "What? Don't you and Fenris want some time alone? I'm fine here for now. Besides, if there is trouble, I should be here, where I can do the most good."

She tilted her head and studied him. "There is something different about you, Anders. You look almost peaceful. No, not peaceful exactly. Have you met someone?"

"What makes you ask that?" he asked quickly and then forced himself to relax his stiff muscles. "I mean, I wish I would, but you know Vengeance doesn't like the idea."

"You just seem more content than I'm used to. I didn't mean to offend you."

"No offense taken. But really, it's about time, don't you think? I just – I've just come to terms with how my life is now."

He felt impatience crawling along his nerves. He wanted her gone, wanted to protect his fragile peace, and sensed that she had the ability to destroy it. "Is there something you needed, Margaret?"

"I – no, I suppose not. If you need anything, let me know."

Anders watched her leave and then turned the key in the door, locking the clinic and returning to his small set of rooms in the back. Fallon was waiting, book in one hand, an apple in the other.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Nathaniel straightened as he sheathed his daggers. His bow rested against the small travel trunk and would remain there until he returned. For now, he needed to move as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. Anya stopped her nervous pacing to stand before him, her eyes dark with concern. "Please be careful, Nathaniel. Those who wish to hurt me will know soon enough the way to do that is to harm you."

He offered her a brief smile. "Let's just get through this night and we'll worry about tomorrow when it comes."

Anya began vigorously pacing again, her limp not slowing her down as she wheeled around to walk the foredeck. The sun was low and heavy in the west, ready to set for the night; long shadows trailed the ship and the sky was awash with crimson, plum and burnished copper. For the moment, he could almost believe they were merely travelers visiting exotic ports, but the reality was there in the sprawling city of Kirkwall, the towers of the chantry and gallows soaring above the city. The mountains were a dark band of jagged peaks in the background.

The ship would be putting to port within the next few minutes and he was going to lose himself in the bustle of a berthing vessel. Anya's plan was not without risk, but it was bold and likely to catch whoever was waiting off guard. They would expect her to be timid and frightened by an attack, but that was a fool's notion. Even in the worst of times, after Anders's assault, she had not shied away from facing her enemies. He was reminded of their battle in the fog against men they couldn't see. She had not hesitated, using all of her senses and strengths to fight.

He stood and walked over to her, gently bringing her to a stop. "You'll wear the deck out at this rate, Anya. It will be fine."

She gave a half-hearted smile and then nodded. "Of course it will."

"And just to be clear, you love me, correct?"

"Correct."

His smile rose, unbidden, determined to stay and he allowed himself to pull her close for a brief hug. "All the more reason to be careful."

She raised a brow. "You say that now, but you realize that if all goes as planned here, we'll be in Val Royeaux within two weeks?"

Nathaniel stepped back, his smile still intact. "Should I be more concerned about your mother or your father?"

Anya grinned, the strain easing from her. "Neither. My brother Raoul, head of Celene's private guard."

"Five minutes, Ser Nathaniel!" Tibbles called.

"Be safe," Anya whispered, giving him a quick, chaste kiss on his cheek before turning and making her way across the deck and down the narrow steps.

As soon as the first ropes were tossed to the dockworkers, Nathaniel moved to the bow, which was in the deepest part of the shadows. The guide ropes had been tied to the dock and he slid down one, dropping silently onto the wooden planks of the wharf. Glancing around to make sure he hadn't been spotted, he slipped into the shadows and disappeared into the crowd of men returning home for the day.

Ten minutes later, he was climbing to the second floor of the Hanged Man. Withdrawing his picks and torsion wrench, he jiggled the window's lock and pushed the window up. Moving with slow, sure steps, skirting the lights, he quickly picked the lock on Varric's door and slipped into the room. He hugged the wall as he surveyed the large room.

Varric was sitting at his desk, scribbling on a vellum. He looked up, frowning. "You need to use a different soap, Ser Untouchable."

"I'm surprised, given your age, you can still manage to remember what soap I use. I must have made quite an impression on you."

Varric laughed, pushing his chair back and standing. They clasped hands briefly, before Nathaniel explained why he was there. "Give me a minute while I send some of the boys over to the docks. I did see a Nevarran ship come in yesterday, no cargo and the passengers were not the friendly tourist types. The Tiamat, I think. Yeah. Okay, stay out of my whiskey, I'll be right back."

Nathaniel sat quietly as he waited for Varric to return. As soon as he re-entered the room, Nathaniel asked, "What's going on, Varric? People out there seem nervous and frightened."

"That horn-headed Arishok is growling like a pissed off ogre, for one thing. Hawke's trying to settle him down, but she's not getting much help from the fine, upstanding people of the chantry. And the viscount's boy has an unhealthy need to tweak his father's nose by making nice with the Qunari. The city is ready to explode in every direction at once." Varric paused to grin at Nathaniel. "You know, the usual for Kirkwall."

"What of Anders?"

"Keeping so low a profile I wasn't sure he was still here until Hawke mentioned he'd moved back to the clinic. Blondie's got something going on, but I'll be damned if I know what. I have Two-Fingers watching him."

It was only then that Nathaniel realized Anya had not given him a warning, or admonition, regarding Anders. He'd been so worried about other things that he hadn't noticed but now he grinned, understanding the trust she had placed in him.

"I'd tell you to have Two-Fingers kill him, but that would only get me in trouble with the woman I hope to marry one day."

"Yeah, it's always a bitch when you get…come again?" Varric asked, caught completely off-guard by Nathaniel's announcement, just as he'd intended. He chuckled.

"So, your sense of smell still works, but your hearing is going, it would seem."

"Man, are the ladies of the Blooming Rose going to be disappointed, Naughty."

"Yes, about that. You couldn't just have restrained yourself? You had to tell Anya?"

Varric shrugged with a broad grin. "Probably the only reason she's interested in your sorry ass."

Nathaniel moved to the window and opened it, preparing to leave.

"The crew of the Tiamat didn't look like limp-wristed nobles. They looked like they could fight a dragon with one hand and an ogre with the other. They aren't the type to play nice," Varric warned.

Glancing over his shoulder, Nathaniel nodded once. "They'll discover we aren't, either."

The dwarf shook his head. "I have a bad feeling."

Nathaniel grinned, carefully lifting himself over the sill, his hands gripping the wood. "You always have a bad feeling, friend. I think it's that bronto piss you drink."

With that he climbed up to the pitched roof and made his way along the rooftops to the Warden house. It was a nondescript brown timber and stone house, just like the others that lined the narrow, dirty street. It appeared vacant, and a cursory look inside the filthy window seemed to verify that. Withdrawing his dagger, he made a small cut on the tip of his finger and let the blood seep into the first lock and then the second. The lock clicked and he opened the door. Inside the vestibule was a cipher lock that required not only his blood, but also for him to move cylinders until he had spelled out _Garahel._ The vestibule door swung open and he stepped into the dark, cold room. From the amount of dust accumulated on the table top, he thought it had been a week or more since anyone had been there.

Relocking the doors behind him, Nathaniel started off in the direction of the docks. He paused, standing deep in the shadows, breathing quietly as he listened to the unnaturally quiet night. Varric was right…something was in the air. He'd sensed that same thing before, usually on the eve of a battle.

It was the smell of sour sweat and desperation. It was the smell of fear.


	34. And War Shall Follow - Part One

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for the beta and insights. I'd be rudderless without you._  
><em>I hope to have part two done this week. <em>  
><em>Thank you to all of you who are favoriting, reading and reviewing. I appreciate it so much!<em>

**And War Shall Follow – Part One**

_Oh fragile peace sing softly to me,  
>As I fear that war doth follow thee.<br>-The Warrior's Lament_

"Four," Nathaniel whispered as they walked along the wharf's rough, weather-beaten planking.

Anya had refused to pull up the hood of her cloak, her dark red hair bright under the lamps. He swore she was exaggerating her limp, as well. She might as well have shouted to one and all that she was Anya Caron, Warden Commander and Arlessa, as obvious as she was. She was insane. One careless moment and whoever was following her would be able to capture her, harm her, or kill her. His unease grew.

A hint of mist was whispering along the water, skimming its surface with a delicate touch. He fervently prayed that it didn't move inland. While it would make it easier for them to get to the Warden house, it would also be easier for ambushes and he'd already fought in the fog, an experience he didn't think he'd ever forget, and one he'd prefer not to repeat.

"We can split up. I know twenty different ways to get to that part of Lowtown. Bet you do too, Nathaniel," Carver whispered, his voice so softly pitched that Nathaniel had to strain to hear it.

"Not until we're closer to our destination. Let them follow for now, perhaps they'll become complacent," Anya instructed, her hand tightening on Nathaniel's arm. He wasn't sure if it was meant as reassurance or to keep herself steady. In the flickering lights of the lamps they passed every few feet, she looked pale but confident. In fact, she seemed much more confident than he felt.

"Nathaniel, as soon as we're there, I want you to double back and check out the Tiamat, see if you can find out anything, but only if you can do so safely. Also, check with your contact's men and see if they have any more information on the crew or passengers. I'm sure you'll be able to spot them easily enough, knowing your contact."

He raised a brow, commenting dryly, "As long as you don't want a private meeting with him. He's given away enough of my secrets."

They turned the corner and Nathaniel held his hand up. They stopped, silently waiting as he listened to the quiet echo of footsteps behind them. "Seems we've lost one," he announced quietly.

Anya frowned. "Or he's managed to get ahead of us."

"Only one way to find out," he whispered. He slipped into the shadows and watched as the others walked on, Carver offering his arm to Anya.

Without another glance in their direction, he darted down a dark alleyway, mentally focusing on memories he had retained of the surrounding area. Hopefully, not too much had changed in the years since he'd played Hide and Seek with Varric and his crew. He pulled himself over a low wall, dropping quietly to the ground, cloaking himself in the darkness around him. He avoided the lamps, easier now as they moved away from the docks and the lampposts became scarcer. Hearing Anya's laugh, sounding surprisingly close, he sprinted along the wide street, hugging the shadows, as he moved swiftly along the darkened alleyways behind the warehouses that lined the waterfront until he was sure he was ahead of Anya and her group.

Turning a corner, he came to a stop, allowing his heart to slow and his breathing to become softer. A man, hidden in the long shadows of a building, was watching the approaching party. Nathaniel removed his dagger from its well oiled sheath, neither the blade nor the leather protesting. Years of practice had taught him exactly how much oil was needed in order to draw a blade without noise. His breathing and heart rate slowed, as he calmed his mind, and then he moved forward, each step carefully positioned to avoid stirring the air currents and alerting anyone to his presence.

Taken completely off guard, the man didn't put up a fight when Nathaniel snaked an arm around his neck and brought his dagger up to rest against the side of the man's head, just grazing the tip of his ear. "Not a sound. And before you think to struggle, don't bother; it would take less than a second to plunge the knife into your ear. I've heard it doesn't kill you right away, although you'd wish it had," he hissed.

"You kill me and you're a dead man," the man assured in a low growl, his Orlesian accent barely discernible.

"I'll take my chances. So far, you haven't seemed capable of it. Bungling idiots and your Nevarran ruse. Only Orlesians could be this inept," Nathaniel spat, his voice low and contemptuous.

A brief hesitation, barely perceptible, before a hot denial told Nathaniel that he and Anya had been correct in surmising the Nevarrans were not behind the attacks. But it had to be someone with Nevarran connections. The Nevarrans and Orlesians had detested each other ever since the uneasy end of the war for Perendale and Andoral's Reach. Even before then, relations had been strained. It seemed improbable that they'd be working together now.

Unless concessions had been made, he thought with a quiet dread. If Celene was replaced by someone who had promised to remove the troops along the border between Nevarra and Orlais, or who'd promised to give even more of the mineral rich Blasted Hills to Nevarra, then it made sense for someone high-placed within the Nevarran government to assist in unseating Celene. Using Kirkwall as the neutral territory for their meetings also made sense given its proximity to Ferelden and its importance in shipping. Who would even notice if the crew of an Orlesian ship and one from a Nevarran ship drank at the same tavern? Tied up beside each other? Or it could even be that the viscount's office was involved, promised a tidy profit in trade tariffs and concessions if he cooperated.

Nathaniel felt as if he'd gone full circle with his thoughts, winding up in the same place he'd started from. Except, he thought as he inched the captive forward, they had another prisoner to interrogate; one who seemed to know a bit more than the sailor they'd captured earlier.

Keeping to the shadows, he arrived at the Warden house before Anya, and was already inside, trussing the prisoner by the time he heard the outer door creak open. He withdrew his second dagger and inched forward, listening intently, only replacing the daggers when he heard Anya's voice calling out softly.

"I believe the other three men are watching the house. I believe the watchers are being watched, as well," she said, smiling brightly. "I think they enjoyed the show, what do you think?"

"I think that you're insane. And I think we have a prisoner to interrogate. It's time to find out what's going on and put a stop to whatever it is."

"I couldn't agree more," Anya replied, removing her cloak and gloves. She moved to look at the man, whose eyes were downcast, unwilling to raise his head and acknowledge her. Nathaniel grabbed a fist-full of the man's auburn hair and pulled his head up.

"_You_? Maker's folly! How clumsy of you to allow yourself to be caught. Age has slowed you, it seems," Anya said contemptuously.

Nathaniel's hand dropped to his side and he turned to examine Anya, whose color had drained from her face. Obviously she knew the man and it had shaken her badly. Nathaniel felt a hard knot form in his stomach.

"Who is he, Anya?"

"Tell the man who you are," Anya instructed sharply, grabbing the man's chin and forcibly raising it until her eyes locked with his. There was a wintry edge to her voice, a coldness that seeped into Nathaniel and he had to fight the urge to pull her close, to protect her from whatever shock seeing the man had given her.

He looked from the captive to Anya and back again. There was an uncanny likeness in the strong jaw line, in the particular shape and color of the eyes. Were they related? Was he another of Celene's many cousins?

"Anya?"

"Tell the man who you are," she repeated, dropping the man's chin and turning her back on him.

"Rousel Gagnon," he growled and then spat in Anya's direction.

Without hesitation or thought, Nathaniel fisted a hand in the man's hair, roughly jerking his head back, scowling down at him. "Show her the respect she's earned and I might be persuaded to kill you quickly. Now, I know your name but not who you are. Who are you?"

"I am her brother. Isn't that right, _chère sœur_?" the man mocked.

Nathaniel's Orlesian was rusty from disuse but he was sure the man had just called her 'dear sister' and the thought sickened him. He looked over at Anya, assessing her reaction to the startling news. She had regained control of her emotions, her face a winter landscape, and Nathaniel's instinct to reach for her, to protect her was strong, but he held still, knowing she would eviscerate him for doing so.

When she spoke, her voice was icy and commanding, devoid of any of the turmoil he sensed in her.

"Search him. Turn every pocket out, look for hidden linings in every article of clothing, search his mouth. Leave _nothing_ unchecked. It is very likely that he has a poison on his person somewhere." With a final, inscrutable look at their prisoner, she limped out of the room.

Carver let out a whistle of surprise and then turned to the man who claimed to be a brother to Anya. "Give me a reason to cut you in half, mate. Just one."

Nathaniel knew exactly how the young Warden felt.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Sorry, Gorgeous, she didn't say what she wanted with you," Isabela said, her eyes taking him in from head to toe. "But I've got a few suggestions if needed."

Anders shook his head, grinning. "Now, now, Isabela, it's never smart to sleep with your healer. They know too many of your more intimate secrets."

"Spoilsport."

"Let me just get my kit and I'll be ready."

He slipped out of the clinic and into his rooms, shutting the door behind him. He took a moment, resting against the closed door to take in the scene with a warmth that was foreign to him, but welcome.

Fallon, seated in the only comfortable chair Anders possessed, was slowly mouthing the words as he struggled to read the simple primer Anders had found in a merchant's stall in the Lowtown bazaar. A frown furrowed between his brows and it wasn't until he'd managed to sound out the word that he looked up at Anders, a fleeting smile brightening his face.

"I have to go out for a bit. I want you to promise to stay here until I get back."

"You lockin' me in?" the boy challenged, his smile gone and eyes narrowed by suspicion and past experience.

"Don't be ridiculous! I didn't take you off the streets just to lock you up. How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not like the others?" Anders struggled to lower his voice and affect a calm tone. "I just have to do an errand for a friend. It shouldn't take long."

Fallon shrugged his thin shoulders. In the low lighting, he looked so young and vulnerable that Anders felt the pull of guilt in his gut. In the very short time they'd been together, Fallon had seemed desperate to believe in the basic goodness of people but it was obvious that he'd met very few people who had demonstrated altruism or kindness. If Anders could give him nothing else, he would give him that much.

"Go on, then," the boy said gruffly, ducking his head and refusing to look at Anders.

Anders watched the boy with a smile. Such a big chip on his shoulder, such a soft heart underneath, such a need to be loved. Anders wondered for a minute if he had the capacity to give Fallon what he really needed. He'd proven to most of the people he knew that he was a self-centered bastard, but he was also a healer and if anyone needed healing, it was the young boy in front of him. "When I get back maybe we can make some of those honey cakes you're so fond of," he said as a peace offering. Or perhaps it was a bribe.

"_I'm_ not fond of 'em. _You_ are."

Anders laughed loudly and then stopped abruptly. No need to have Isabela think he was barking mad. Or, he amended with a wry grin, even more barking mad than she already thought. As they all thought. He stepped closer to Fallon, letting his hand fall gently on the boy's head and ruffling the golden brown hair. "Fine, _I'm_ fond of them. _You_ only tolerate them."

Fallon shrugged his hand away, but he was grinning, unable to hide it as he returned to his reading. "Mind your back," the boy warned.

"Mind yours."

Anders, kit and staff in hand, nodded and slipped back into the clinic. Isabela was frowning at him, her look of genuine concern giving him pause. "What?"

"Nothing. Guess Justice doesn't want you going anywhere?"

Heart thumping, Anders tried not to let his concern show in his grin. "That spirit has no sense of adventure at all," he agreed, forcing a cheerful note into his voice. "Don't tell me it shows? I keep telling him, enough with the blue, already." He added a chuckle and it was a hollow, desperate sound, even to him.

"Oh, come off it, Handsome. I heard you talking to him. Really, he just needs a night with me and all that crankiness will be a thing of the past. I'm disappointed. I didn't hear him and I do love his voice, it's so deep and sexy. What I wouldn't give to wake up to that."

She obviously hadn't heard Fallon then; that was a relief. Still, he let his mind go through the conversation, the tone, the volume of it, fighting a sense of panic. It abated only after he was convinced that Fallon hadn't been heard.

He would introduce the boy to his friends once he was sure Fallon was prepared for that. He was far too skittish at the moment. And she was the last person he'd introduce the boy to anyway. Even when he finally brought Fallon out of hiding, he would keep the lad away from Isabela.

"You didn't hear Justice giving me grief?" he asked casually, just to set his mind at ease.

Isabela's laugh followed them out the door of the clinic and he stopped long enough to lock the door. She shook her head at the futility of the act. She'd told him countless times that the lock could be picked by a professional such as herself in under ten seconds, a boast that he'd yet to take her up on. There were a number of boasts she'd made that he'd ignored. She was everything Anya was not, a glaring reminder of what he'd lost, and he preferred the whores of the Blooming Rose to her obvious overtures.

They walked on in silence, heading for Lowtown. As they neared the district, Anders finally asked, "So, where are we meeting Margaret?"

"Yes, about that…we aren't exactly meeting her."

"What?"

Anders stopped and she immediately slipped an arm around his waist, urging him forward. "I need some help with a little problem," she replied with a cajoling smile.

"Again? I've told you and told you to stay away from the docks."

"No, not that kind of a problem! I need help getting my relic back. You remember, the one I mentioned before? I know where it is but I don't want to bother Hawke. She's so busy with the viscount's son."

The hair on his arms prickled in alarm. "Does she even know about this?"

Isabela grinned up at him, continuing to urge him forward. "Not unless she found my note."

"What note?"

"The one I meant to write."

"Damn it, Isabela! You could have just been honest, you know, just asked me to come along."

"Sure, but where's the fun in that, Handsome? If you have to ask, it isn't worth it, is it?" She winked at him, but he saw the pallor under her dusky skin. She was worried, nervous about something, and he didn't even want to guess what it might be.

"What exactly is this relic you're so anxious to get back?"

She shook her head. "I'm not sure, really. Just something I _relieved_ from some Orlesians. The Arishok seems to want it rather badly."

"Damn it, Isabela!" Anders repeated, unable to think of anything else to say in that moment. He'd been used by her before, but never so blatantly, which meant she was in real trouble. Or was it fear? "Is that why he's ready to start a war? Because of this relic?"

Isabela shrugged, removing her arm from his waist in favor of pulling him along the street. "Who knows why he's ready to explode? He hates everyone who's not Qunari, that's reason enough. The more I learn about them, the less sense they make."

The air was oppressive, and there were far too few people on the streets. Something was wrong; it clung to the air like smoke and he hadn't realized it until that moment. He shook free of her grasp and stopped. "I have to get back to the clinic."

"What? No! Anders, just help me get the relic back and I'll – I'll figure out how to get it to the Arishok on my own. Please, Anders, just this one favor and I won't ask for anything again."

It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse her pleas for help. Fallon was alone, and if something happened to him, no one would know the boy was in the clinic. Or, Maker forbid, what if the Arishok used gaatlok to start a war? What if Fallon was hurt and he wasn't there to help? Anders grabbed Isabela's arm, dragging her to a stop. He wanted to throttle her, his anger leaping to life.

"No! I really need to get back to the clinic."

"Why? Some hot date or something?" Isabela asked trying to lighten the mood but it was much too late for that.

"Something," he responded curtly.

"Well, it can wait an hour or two, right? You'll help me with this tiny little favor, right?" she wheedled.

"You selfish bitch, you only think about yourself!" he exploded, shaking her roughly.

"Ha! That's rich coming from you, Lover!" she exclaimed sarcastically, staring down at his hand on her arm.

Anders dropped her arm and turned to leave, disgusted with himself, with her.

"Please, Anders. I can't do this alone."

"You got into this mess on your own, get out of it on your own."

"They'll kill me!" she cried and it was then that he heard the real fear in her voice.

He paused, thinking of all the times he had needed help and been ignored or belittled for it. From there his thoughts flashed to Fallon, who had been neglected, abused and ignored his entire life. What would _he_ think of Anders abandoning a friend in need? He sighed and turned to face her. "Fine. I'll help you get the relic and then you're on your own."

The group that had the relic and the Qunari who wanted it back were fighting when they arrived at the abandoned building in Lowtown. "Let them fight it out and we'll take on whoever's left," Isabela whispered from their vantage point just inside the door. Anders nodded. By his count there were fifteen people and that was about twelve more than the two of them could handle.

"Shit! He's got the relic!" Isabela shouted, pointing at a man running for the door. She jumped up and ran after him, announcing their hiding spot to the entire group.

Anders hesitated and then leapt out of the shadows for the door. He couldn't have been more than a few seconds behind her, but he found the man, a throwing knife lodged in the back of his head, face down, and Isabela nowhere to be found.

Running along the streets, he wondered if he should go in search of Margaret and let her know what had transpired, but concern for Fallon overruled any need to relay events to Margaret. He'd just check on the boy and then use the tunnel to let her know what was going on.

His steps shortened and he paused to catch his breath, sagging against a building and wondering where everyone was. The streets were preternaturally quiet. He could hear a few people out and about but usually the streets of Lowtown were full of people. He pushed himself away from the building and took a few more steps.

And then he heard a sound he had never expected to hear again…Anya's laugh, light and sweet, from nearby. He stumbled to a stop again, straining to hear the sound, but all he heard was the blood pulsing through him as his heart slammed against his ribs. What direction had it come from? He gave a snort of laughter at his imagination, quickly swallowed by a sudden realization.

He was becoming unhinged; it was the only possible explanation. The thought staggered him and then he found he was walking again. He lengthened his stride as he made for the safety of his clinic and the young boy who waited for him, who made no demands of him, who accepted him as he was, and who reminded him of the person he had once been.

A question crept into his mind, terrible and twisted and he stuttered to a halt. What else was his imagination capable of creating?

**~~~oOo~~~**

Apprehension was giving way to a serious case of outright nerves as Margaret, dressed in a plain robe with a minimum of enchantments woven into it, picked up her staff and then put it down again.

"Bring it, Margaret. You do not need to hide your staff as I believe Mother Petrice is aware of your abilities," Fenris recommended, his voice confident.

If he was nervous about the possibility of a confrontation, he hid it well. His green eyes were steady and his expression calm. Trying to emulate him, Margaret picked up her staff. She checked her healer's kit for the third time, ensuring that her health potions, unguents and bandages were in place. She didn't know what to expect, but she did know that Mother Petrice was manipulative and cunning.

"Let's hope that she bought into your story, Choir Boy," Varric muttered, hoisting Bianca onto his back and settling his leather pouch of bolts on his hip for easy access.

"I believe I sounded sincere, but you must be careful, Hawke. The mother doesn't speak for Elthina, but she has a number of followers. We must try to resolve this peacefully, for Elthina's sake."

"Is she willing to listen in on our meeting? Has she assigned guards to the narthex?"

"She said she would consider it, Hawke, but she mentored Mother Petrice. I don't think she's willing to believe she could have fostered a viper," he concluded in resignation. "I don't know if she's done as I requested or not."

Margaret's nervousness gave way to irritation. So much of the current fear and tension in Kirkwall could have been allayed by a few words from Grand Cleric Elthina. Maker forbid the woman act as the guiding light of her congregation. Gritting her teeth to prevent a diatribe on the woman from escaping, she merely nodded and then led her group out of the mansion.

It was a warm night, almost sultry, and a fine mist curled around the lit lamps of the square. They walked briskly along the deserted streets of Hightown, heading for the building that was dwarfed only by the Gallows in size. The elegant bell towers rose like beckoning fingers against the night sky, and Margaret felt a shiver trace along her spine.

Something was not right. There was some _thing_ in the stillness…some indefinable _wrongness_. The deserted streets and eerie silence made her stomach jump and any slight noise was amplified, sending her heart skittering in her chest. The air felt like it did just before a thunderstorm – heavy and thick, oppressive. She felt it pressing down on her as she walked along the cobblestones.

"Does anyone else believe that this will end in disaster?" she asked quietly.

"Oh yeah, no question about it," Varric agreed, huffing a bit to keep up with her quick pace. He reached up to pat Bianca. "But not to worry, Hawke, we're ready for anything."

"As am I, Margaret. Let us discover what Mother Petrice has devised and be done with this once and for all," Fenris said with the quiet strength that always fortified her flagging courage and made her feel invincible.

"I am sure we're over-reacting," Sebastian interjected reassuringly, but he was tense; she could hear it in the crisp tattoo created by the heels of his boots striking the pavement as they walked along.

The door groaned as she opened it, sounding impossibly loud to her, but rather than the soft lighting and furtive sounds of Petrice and her cronies waiting for them as she'd anticipated, they were greeted by the sound of unrestrained grief in the form of heart-rending sobs coming from the direction of the altar, and dozens of candles were lit, dispelling the shadows. A group of sisters and brothers were chanting softly.

"Serah Hawke!" Seneschal Bran called out and she moved to his side.

"What's happened?"

"It's Saemus," the seneschal began, only to trail off and shake his head in despair. She had never seen the seneschal anything but aloof and efficient, but the grief in him was palpable. She laid her hand on his arm and gave it a brief, gentle squeeze. He shook his head again and she gave him time to compose himself. He would be horrified that he'd shown such emotion to her, she was sure.

She glanced around the chantry, listening and watching the scenes of grief playing out, trying to collect her thoughts. Actions, not tears, were needed but she knew that Dumar was not in the right mind to listen to reason. Her memories of her own shock at the death of her mother filtered through the confusion of her brain and she took a deep breath, willing the thoughts away.

Fervent prayers reached her ears, a supplication for the Maker to watch over the dead and above that were Viscount Dumar's whispered pleas for forgiveness. "Can you help me understand what's happened?" she asked Seneschal Bran as gently as her growing fear allowed.

"We received word that Saemus was seeking refuge in the chantry; that he had decided to return to his faith and his family. We were told that the Qunari were on their way to return him to the compound, by order of the Arishok. His Grace insisted on accompanying us. When we arrived here we found Saemus. The foolish boy, why did he not come home?" he asked emotionally. He pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away for a brief moment.

A primitive, raw anger awoke in her. "Mother Petrice, would she be the one who told you this?"

"She was, yes. Why?" the seneschal asked, his eyes finally focusing on her.

Why? Was he blind? Her anger deepened, but it wasn't directed solely at the seneschal. She understood the effects of shock and he was clearly suffering from the loss of Saemus. She spoke bluntly, but not unkindly.

"The Arishok didn't do this, you must know that. He's a man of honor, not a coward to hide in the shadows and kill an unarmed boy. But Mother Petrice needed to make an example of someone, someone that was of enough import to cause a war."

The seneschal paled. "This was her idea? To kill the viscount's son?"

"I am sure of it. I don't have proof, but if I can speak to the Arishok and to Grand Cleric Elthina I believe there is enough circumstantial evidence to prove she was behind this, she and her group of zealots."

He nodded slowly. "We need to find her, I agree."

Glancing around, she saw there weren't any city guards present and her stomach dipped as fear pushed aside her anger. "Where are the guardsmen? Guard Captain Aveline?"

Realization crept into his expression, horror darkening his eyes. "His Grace sent them to demand justice."

_Oh Maker, don't let us be too late to stop the madness_. "How long ago did they leave?"

"I'm not sure. Twenty minutes, perhaps. If you hurry you might catch them."

"Please, Seneschal Bran, get the viscount back to the keep and post guards at every entrance. Send a detachment in search of Mother Petrice. When you find her, you must have her brought to the Arishok."

"I cannot allow that, Serah Hawke," Grand Cleric Elthina said with quiet dignity, moving from the dim recesses of the chantry to stand in front of her, hands clasped in front of her, face lined with sorrow. "I will ensure the young mother atones."

"Atones?" Margaret said, incredulous at the woman's failure to grasp the situation. "This was not some small transgression. She killed a young, defenseless boy in the name of the Maker and your office, which she then blamed on the spiritual leader of the Qunari. It is not her first offense, but it is her most egregious."

"Will you let her start a war, Your Eminence?" Sebastian added. "Hawke is right: we _must_ bring Mother Petrice to the Arishok even if it means her death."

"I will ensure she is punished, but death is never the answer."

"Tell that to the viscount," the seneschal broke in bitterly. He met Margaret's eyes and held them for a long moment. "I'll do as you ask. You need to hurry. If the guard detachment reaches the compound there is no telling what will ensue."

"War," Fenris said simply.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anya yanked her Grey Warden tabard over her head and tossed it aside, her concentration focused solely on breathing. It was not easy to ignore the man who watched her with a quiet intensity, the questions he wanted to ask so near the surface she could almost hear them, knew they were there by the depth of his silence.

"Did he say anything else?" she asked, surprised by how steady her voice was.

"Nothing."

"Then he is of no further use to us." The coldness had returned to her voice, the implacability that marked her as a Caron. Like her father. Like Raoul, her _true _brother. Not like the mongrel who claimed a relationship that could not be proven, the traitorous bastard.

The resemblance was there - in his eyes, his looks - but that only signified that one of his parents had been related to Celene. At last count there had been thirty-three cousins, aunts, and uncles old enough to have sired Rousel. Her father had never spoken about it, other than to say that gossiping was a base and dishonorable occupation. And many of her cousins had the same strong jaw and dark blue eyes, and varying shades of auburn or red hair. It didn't mean that Rousel Gagnon was her half-brother.

She pushed her thoughts aside and turned to Nathaniel. "Gag him, and leave him bound as he is."

She pulled on her leather gloves and reached for her bow, already strung, and a quiver full of arrows, adding, "We need to leave if we are to make this meeting he spoke of. Not that I believe there is such an event taking place. He was always a braggart and a bully, and he still is."

"Anya, I'm –"

"He _isn't_ my brother. Nor half-brother. Perhaps an illegitimate cousin but if we counted up all of those they would number in the dozens, I'm sure."

"There is an uncanny resemblance," Nathaniel insisted quietly.

She didn't want to have the conversation and her cold implacability was giving way to impatience and a desire to fight, to battle against a worthy foe until she was so tired she couldn't think. Rubbing at her temple with her gloved hand, she shrugged off his remark. Whether Rousel was a brother or a distant cousin, he was also a traitor and a liar, a devious bastard in every sense of the word.

"We need to leave immediately if we're going to make that meeting."

Flynne was tending to the prisoner when she entered the room and the urge to insist he stop was nearly overwhelming, but the sense of fairness that had always plagued her stayed her tongue. He was a bastard but he didn't deserve to be eaten by any rats that might be about simply because she hated what he represented.

"Quickly, Flynne. Carver, check his bindings when Flynne has finished."

Carver nodded and opened his mouth to speak but she shot a glare at him and his mouth snapped shut. She was not going to answer questions about Gagnon, nor was she in the mood for well meaning but embarrassing platitudes. She had heard them all, growing up, and she didn't need to hear more. The situation was intolerable without adding to it. She sighed, trying to ease the tension from her shoulders and neck. It was hardly her men's fault that the intrigues of Orlais had spilled into their lives, thanks to her.

"Let's just get to the meeting. We can talk about the rest later," she finally said. Without giving them a chance to speak, she continued, "Nathaniel, what is the quickest way to the old foundry he was speaking of?"

"Until we get rid of the people watching us, it doesn't matter because they'll delay us. According to Gagnon, they were sent to keep an eye on you."

Her frustration at always being a step behind the conspirators rose in her again, lending an impatient edge to her voice. "How are they managing to communicate with each other so quickly? How do they always seem to know our moves the moment we do?"

Even bound and gagged, she saw the triumphant smirk in Rousel's expression. Her hands tightened into fists, the desire to pummel him propelling her forward until she was looming over him. He did not shrink back and that further incited her frustration and anger.

"Are they using mage sending stones? Mounted messengers? Somniari? Courier pigeons?" she demanded of him, but he shrugged, his eyes sly as they slid over her.

"Somniari and courier pigeons," Nathaniel supplied quietly. "His eyes widened when you mentioned them," he explained when she shot him a questioning glance.

"Bastards," she hissed, stepping away from their captive before she allowed her fists to do as they wanted. If both somniari and courier pigeons were being used then a great deal of money was involved, which meant more than just Etienne; his pockets were never flush. Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons had to be involved. He was the only one with the wealth and the connections to use a somniari.

"Say, not to break up the party, but is there a back way out of here? There are three men out there waiting to follow us. If they see us heading in the direction of the meeting they'll let the others know long before we get there," Carver said, adjusting his greatsword, a pleased smile flitting across his features.

Moments later, Anya stepped out of a tunnel, glancing around. Grim and dark, the alleyway smelled of refuse and rotting vegetation, of the tenements in the ghettoes of Val Royeaux. It was the smell of desperate poverty and hopelessness.

"I'm not sure where we are," she murmured, trying not to breathe too deeply.

"Very near Darktown. We don't want to go there, trust me," Carver explained with a shudder.

He led them in the opposite direction, through a maze of side-streets. Nathaniel was at the rear, melding with shadows to ensure no one followed them. "Lowtown, near the Harp and Hound. The Hanged Man is just a few blocks from here. Uncle Gamlen's a few blocks in the other direction. Should be at the meeting place on the docks in no time."

Before Anya could catch her bearings, the night exploded around them, the force of the blast shattering windows as the sound reverberated off the surrounding buildings.

"It's the docks!" Nathaniel shouted and she looked in the direction he indicated.

An unearthly orange glow hung suspended over the docks, flickering against the dark, haze filled sky as flames caught the dry wood of buildings in a macabre dance.

It looked as if the entire district was on fire.


	35. And War Shall Follow - Part Two

**A/N: **_Thank you, Super Beta Lisa, from the bottom of my heart. You always make sense of my ramblings and I'd be lost without your help.  
>For those who PM'd me about The Warrior's Lament...it's from a poem I wrote way, way, way long ago...before paper had been invented. ;)<em>

**And War Shall Follow – Part Two**

_War is the tinder that awaits the flame.  
>Man is the spark, to his eternal shame.<br>-The Warrior's Lament_

Clattering down the endless flight of stairs, Margaret had no time for all the thoughts that demanded her attention. She could hear Varric's strained breathing, and Sebastian's metallic armor clinking as they raced to stop Aveline and her guardsmen from meeting with the Arishok, but Fenris moved with his usual quiet grace. She only knew he was beside her by the occasional flash of white hair in the gloom.

She had no idea what she would say to the Arishok, or how she could possibly defuse the situation, but she knew if she didn't try, Kirkwall would be decimated by the Qunari. Would he understand that a few zealots were the cause? Was _he_ not a zealot? She understood very little about the Qun and how the Qunari's faith was practiced, but she knew that they would defend any of the faithful to their dying breath.

She was vaguely aware of her surroundings as they crossed out of Hightown, skirting Darktown. There was a distinct deterioration in the air quality as they continued on, becoming more oppressive. The aroma of rose gardens and honeysuckle gave way to rotting garbage and unwashed bodies, made more noticeable by how still the air was.

They found the guardsmen, and Aveline, on a side street still several blocks away from the compound. Aveline's expression was tight and grim as she ordered two of her guardsmen to escort a man, bound by ropes, back to the prison located underneath the keep. "We'll deal with him tomorrow."

"Aveline! Thank the Maker!" Margaret gasped, holding her side as she panted.

"Hawke? What are you doing here?"

Taking a proffered waterskin from the captain, Margaret drank greedily. The night was too still, too warm and humid. She could feel sweat trickling down between her shoulders and along her hairline.

"Don't go to the compound, Aveline. The Qunari did not kill Saemus Dumar. Mother Petrice did."

Aveline made an impatient, huffing sound. "You're trying to blame the Chantry for killing the viscount's son?" she asked in disbelief.

"I'm not _trying_ to do anything except prevent a war, Aveline. I warned you almost a year ago that Mother Petrice and her group of fanatics wanted to start trouble with the Qunari. They want the Qunari gone or killed, I don't think they care which, at this point."

"You warned me, yes, but you gave no evidence of any plot to do so and they didn't break any laws."

"Well, they have now. They hope to rally the City Guard, the viscount and the citizens against the Qunari. Are you prepared to fight an enemy who can poison hundreds of people, possibly thousands? Who can raze buildings with explosives we don't even know how to make?"

Even in her own ears, her words sounded melodramatic and verging on hysterical. She stopped, taking several breaths. "I know this sounds crazy, Aveline, but - "

"She speaks the truth, Aveline. You need to return to the keep and muster your guardsmen. If Margaret cannot stop the Arishok, there will be war."

Aveline's face, normally pale, became even more so at Fenris's solemn words. "You're sure it's come to that?"

"Yes," Fenris replied with a composed, serious tone that Margaret found unnerving. He was steeling himself for the worst, mentally preparing for a bloody battle. She saw it in his expression.

"Please, Aveline, go by way of the alienage and pick up Merrill. She won't know what to do if the worst happens. She's a decent enough healer now, she'll be of help. And you might send someone to warn Anders. He'll want to get his clinic ready," Margaret added.

"And Isabela?"

Margaret shook her head. She and Isabela had always had an uneasy relationship and there was much about her that Margaret found off-putting. Isabela kept her true emotions and thoughts to herself and neither woman had spent time getting to know the other well enough to overcome their mistrust of the other. And now was not the time to feel badly because of it.

"I'm not sure where'd you'd look for her. Varric?"

The dwarf stepped forward and shrugged. "If she isn't at The Hanged Man, she's at the Blooming Rose. Don't go out of your way; Rivaini can take care of herself."

Without voicing her thought that Isabela was particularly resourceful when it came to her own safety, Margaret merely nodded and continued, "Dumar will be sending Petrice to the Arishok as soon as she's located. In the meantime, I'm going to see if that will be sufficient."

Aveline shuddered. "I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of Qunari justice, not after that run in with the Saarebas and Arvaarad a few years back. Are you sure you don't want an escort?"

"Such an action will further incite the Arishok. This group will suffice," Fenris said.

Margaret agreed, once more thankful to have his steadying influence. "See you back at the keep in a bit," she promised and, without a backward glance, continued on her way to the Qunari compound along the waterfront.

She looked beyond the docks, to the ships at anchor, their masts made ghostly by the sails lashed to them. There were several ships that appeared to be setting sail and she was surprised at the amount of activity as dock workers cast lines and loaded cargo.

"Shit!" Varric exclaimed angrily, pointing at a ship moving gracefully along the water as it headed to the open sea. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

"What is it, Varric?" Sebastian asked, coming to stand beside him.

"That's the Merry Merchant! You know, Hawke, the ship we bought? The one that we are going to use to break into the shipping trade? The one that isn't supposed to sail for another three days? The one that's sailing away," the dwarf answered, frowning. And then he began to run towards the empty berth and the small cluster of dockhands that were gathered around watching the ship as it sailed into the deep channel on its way to the Waking Sea.

"Varric! Wait!" Margaret called after him, her frustration mounting. "Meet us at the compound!" she added and he waved a hand in acknowledgement.

"Let's get this over with," she muttered and continued on.

As they arrived at the compound, Margaret felt her heart sink. In front of the compound, arms folded, were three Qunari soldiers. Behind them were four more. All of them were dressed for battle and all of them were stone-faced. She couldn't see any other Qunari and the usual bonfires, built to stave off the cold nights, were not lit.

"I am here to see the Arishok," she announced, instilling as much authority in her voice as she could. She stood straight, eyes on the man she spoke too, refusing to show him just how worried or frightened she was. She'd learned during the course of her dealings with the Qunari that they respected strength and honesty.

Fenris and Sebastian were on either side of her. She knew, without looking at them, that they were alert and the slightest provocation from the Qunari would be met with force. That was not going to happen if she could help it.

"_Shanedan_, Hawke. You are too late. I show this only because the Arishok deems you _basalit-an_," one of the Qunari said solemnly. He motioned to his men to step back and as they did, the gate to the compound swung open.

Margaret took several steps forward and then stopped. Heart slamming into her ribs, she felt the hair on the back of her neck and along her arms rise, tickling at her nerves and chasing along her spine. Mother Petrice, sprawled on her back in the dust, stared up at the night sky with unseeing eyes, the sword that had pinned her there still in place. Noise receded and in the vacuum she heard only her pulse thrumming in her ears.

Sebastian knelt in the dirt to recite a prayer, his words no more than a whispered hum. She glanced at Fenris and saw his hands tighten into fists. He met her eyes and moved his head imperceptibly towards the gate, a signal to leave.

She stood, taking in the scene, unable for the moment to do more than stare at the dead woman. Too late. She was, once again, too late to stop the insanity around her. She tried to speak, to find something to say that would break the crushing silence.

"The Arishok is not here?" she finally managed, wincing internally at the absurdity of the question.

"He is not. You must leave. Do so quickly," the Qunari intoned without inflection.

"Where did he go?" she demanded, almost as surprised as he was by the determination in her voice.

"That is not your concern. I will tell you this only once more, and only because you have shown honor in the past. Leave this compound. Travel as far as you can as quickly as you can."

Ominous words that pierced through her paralyzing fog. She glanced at Fenris, who nodded. Sebastian rose, readjusting his bow as they slowly turned and walked out of the compound.

"Where are the other Qunari? More importantly, where is the Arishok?"

Before either of the men could answer, Varric returned, still panting and out of breath. "That crazy pirate commandeered our ship," he muttered angrily, thrusting a folded piece of parchment into Margaret's hand. She took it and squinted in the dim light.

"I'm sorry, but something important has come up and I need to borrow your ship. I knew you'd understand. Tell Hawke I'm sorry," she read aloud and then crumpled the paper, tossing it on the ground.

"Has the entire city gone mad?" she asked, rubbing at her temples as she tried to remember how to breathe.

"So it would seem, Margaret. However, we are not safe in our current location. We need to travel away from the compound as quickly as we are able," Fenris reminded her.

"And what about everyone who's still working down here? Shouldn't we warn them?" she asked.

"We cannot warn everyone, there is no time," Fenris replied with quiet urgency. She felt his hand on her elbow, impelling her to action.

"But there must be several dozen men still on the docks."

"Now, Margaret!" Fenris commanded and she found she was being propelled along the wooden walkway to the stairs leading away from the docks, her feet moving of their own volition, even though her mind was screaming at her to stay and warn the others.

"Varric, come on!" Margaret called, looking over her shoulder at the dwarf.

"I gotta tell the men! I'll catch up!" he yelled back, running back toward the berth where the Merry Merchant had been anchored.

"I need to tell Gamlen."

"Margaret, there isn't time."

Margaret shook her head, slowing to a stop. "I have lost enough, Fenris. I won't knowingly risk losing more."

"_Festis bei umo canavarum!" _ Fenris growled.

"By the grace of the Maker, I won't be the death of anyone," she replied forcefully.

Varric caught up to them when they were nearly at the long boardwalk that led to Lowtown. Before Margaret could draw a breath of relief, the world around her seemed to rupture, splintering into a thousand tiny lights that leapt into the air. The ground rolled beneath her feet and she was deafened from the tremendous roar of the explosion that echoed all around them. Had Sebastian not reached out and grabbed her arm, she would have fallen. She felt as if she was aboard a ship again, on raging seas, and then as suddenly as the pitching began, it stopped, but the night sky had shattered, a spreading red glow erasing the darkness and she was deafened, hearing nothing but a faint buzzing.

"…Andraste, bride of the Maker, accept those souls into your…"

"…don't give a shit who…"

"…Hawke, are you al…"

Gradually, her hearing returned and with it, her ability to speak, to think. "We've got get to the keep!" she shouted above the din.

"Not back that way, we'll cut through the markets and grab your uncle on the way," Varric instructed.

Margaret took a moment to get her bearings, and looked back the way they had come. There was an angry crimson cast to the sky as if it was seeping blood. Flames were licking hungrily at the wooden buildings along the waterfront, making it appear as though the entire world was ablaze. Maker, how many people had been killed? Injured? Had Aveline made it to safety? Had she managed to get to Merrill in time?

Noticing movement through the thick smoke enveloping the area of the Qunari's compound, she saw a group of Qunari moving east, toward the main stairway to Hightown.

"The Arishok has obviously been planning this for awhile."

"All the more reason to move our asses!" Varric yelled, darting forward.

"Yes, but where would he go?" she called after him and then shook her head in frustration. "Fenris, you know the Qunari better than most. Where would the Arishok go?"

"To the keep. He will begin by cutting off the head of the snake in order to throw the body into turmoil, ensuring a swift victory."

"Then we need to get there as quickly as possible. Perhaps we can still salvage this."

The silence that followed her remark told her that her companions didn't believe that any more than she did.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Nathaniel grabbed Anya's arm, holding her back. "Not that way. Too open," he explained, pulling her into a side street.

The air was filled with the sounds of shouting, the low roar of the fire consuming the docks and the metallic clash of swords. It was the chaotic sound of war and somehow they had become caught up in it. Any disappointment she felt over missing the meeting was quickly overwhelmed by her desire to aid those who were crying out for help. Her thoughts turned to Rousel and she hesitated. He would be accompanying her to Val Royeaux, whether he knew it or not, and she wanted to ensure he lived long enough to do so.

"What's the safest way back to the house?" she asked, dread creeping into her voice.

"Maker! I have to get to Margaret!" Carver cried out, his voice rising above the din. He looked around frantically, panic in his eyes.

"First we have to get to safety," Anya instructed.

"I have to go," he insisted and turned from them. She grabbed his arm forcefully, spinning him around. They were both surprised by her strength but it was fueled by the adrenaline surging through her.

"Warden Carver, you will stay with us until I say otherwise! Is that understood?" she commanded, pinning him in place with a steely gaze.

Carver blinked, the wildness gradually fading from his eyes. "Yes, Commander Anya."

"We'll go, Carver, but we must use caution," she explained and then turned to the others, hiding her disappointment. Would Rousel survive the fire? It seemed as if the flames were marching with the speed of an advancing army.

"Nathaniel, can you get us to Hightown and still avoid the fire?"

Without answering her directly, Nathaniel, outwardly calm and his voice steady, looked at Caver. "If we cut through Lowtown at the market, can we get to the old stairway that ends near the chantry?"

Carver frowned thoughtfully and then nodded. "But to get there, we'll have to go through Uncle Gamlen's neighborhood. I'd like to stop and make sure he's safe too," the young man added, looking somewhat sheepish at the admission.

"Of course, Carver," Anya assured him as they started off.

"Do you suppose they'll let the mages out of their prison long enough for them to put out the fires?" Flynne asked, surveying the golden red glow to the northeast of them, along the waterfront.

"Maker, I hope so! From the sound of it, healers are needed too," Anya agreed, following Nathaniel through a narrow alleyway that opened onto a small square. Before they could take more than a dozen steps, they heard a high pitched scream nearby and Anya changed direction, quickening her pace until she was half hopping in her hurry.

"Anya!" Nathaniel cried and she heard the frustration and fear in his voice but she kept moving toward the sound, bow in hand, arrow nocked.

A dozen or more Qunari were attacking a group of people, striking them down indiscriminately and without remorse. Anya raised her bow and aimed, releasing the arrow in one fluid movement as Nathaniel had taught her.

"Flynne, if you have anything that will protect those people, use it!" she shouted above the din before nocking and releasing another arrow at a Qunari soldier.

The soldier staggered back and then yanked the arrow out of his chest, hurling it aside. Anya blinked quickly in surprise at the action. Her heart, beating a rapid staccato in her chest, slammed into her ribcage, pushing the wind out of her lungs as a fresh rush of adrenaline flowed through her.

She released another arrow, watching as it flew with unswerving accuracy and implanted itself in the Qunari's left eye. He went down without another sound, but she was already nocking another arrow and finding another target. She caught movement out of the corner of her left eye and then felt a hand on the small of her back, shoving her. She stumbled to the side and lost her footing, a sharp cry of pain wrenched from her as her knees collided with the cobblestone.

"Saarebas!" Carver yelled, his greatsword swinging in a violent arc where she had been standing seconds before.

The bolt of energy from the Saarebas's spell hit Carver mid-chest and sent him careening back to land against the side of a building with a bruising thud. Anya brought her bow up and fired but she was off-balance and it flew to the left, imbedding itself in a barrel. Nathaniel's arrow sank into the Saarebas's chest and spun him around. Carver was standing again, launching himself at the Qunari mage, stopping short and bringing his sword up. With a swift, sweeping motion he swung his sword, decapitating his assailant.

Anya struggled to her feet and grabbed her bow, turning awkwardly to take aim. Another Qunari fell and then another. But more were entering the square. "Flynne, freeze them!" she yelled above the clamor.

"Working on it!"

"Down, Anya!" Nathaniel cried out and she dropped, ducking her head as a volley of arrows flew overhead.

"To the right, Nate!" Flynne shouted.

Flynne's ice ensnared over half the remaining Qunari. Anya was up again, moving with grim determination, releasing an arrow and then another. She could feel the sweat gathering to drip along her forehead and down her back, sticky rivulets under her armor. She glanced around to see the group of people scattering now that the Qunari were distracted and then she felt the hot sting of a blade graze her back, tearing through the leather to bite into her skin. She let out a startled yelp, dropping to her knees, her bow falling beside her.

Rolling to her left, she unsheathed her daggers, hissing as her sweat mingled with her blood. The Qunari towered above her, sword already moving and she rolled to the right, hooking her foot around his ankle and pulling her leg back sharply. He teetered and she unhooked her foot, rolling again as he crashed onto the ground. Hip screaming in agony, she rolled back and straddled the soldier, bringing her daggers down and burying them to the hilt in his chest, twisting them to ensure the maximum amount of damage was done. Withdrawing the blades proved difficult and she grunted with the effort before rolling off him, panting from the exertion.

A soothing mist wrapped around her and she realized someone was healing her even as she struggled to stand up. The muffled sounds of a battle ending came to her and she sagged in relief, only to shoot upright when she heard Carver yell: "Sister!"

Turning, she registered a small group of people standing in the square and recognized Margaret Hawke and Varric among them, which explained how quickly the battle had come to an end. Swiveling her head, she looked for Anders, mouth gone dry, but, to her relief, she didn't see him. She moved forward, watching as Carver grabbed his sister and hugged her fiercely before thrusting her away, as if embarrassed by his display.

"I might have known you'd be involved in this," he growled.

Margaret shook her head in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

"Warden business. What are _you_ doing here?"

Margaret's expression of surprise gave way to one of grief and Anya instinctively moved closer, coming to greet Margaret and her group. "Thank you for the help," she said quietly.

There was a pause as introductions were quickly made, and wounds attended to.

"I know it isn't within the purview of the Wardens to assist in political matters, but we're trying to prevent a massacre here," Margaret finished quietly.

Anya considered her words carefully. At one time she would have walked away; the mandate of the Wardens was clear on the subject. They were to avoid political and domestic wars, to rise above such battles and focus solely on battling the darkspawn, they couldn't afford to be seen as political tools. There had been honor in that directive, one she had felt duty-bound to obey, no matter the cost. But that had changed, brought about by the First Warden's political manipulations. Now she held a title and, more importantly, land, giving her a voice in Ferelden's Landsmeet. Her brother-in-arms, King Alistair, had an even larger voice in the Landsmeet. Another comrade was a member of Celene's inner council. That rule no longer bound her. She nodded briefly.

"That may have been true once, Margaret, but the moment the First Warden conspired with others to make me an Arlessa that rule ceased to be valid. Besides, you are family, and the Wardens protect their families at all costs. How may we help?"

Nathaniel, moving to stand beside her, rested a gloved hand on the small of her back and she winced slightly. "As I thought. You need healing before we go on," he said, a hint of admonishment entwined with concern in his voice.

"I need to check on Gamlen," Margaret and Carver said in unison and then they stared at each other in surprise before Carver, somewhat defensively, spoke again.

"Someone has to look after the idiot."

Margaret nodded. "Agreed. Carver, I – I can't quite believe you're here. About – about Mother…"

"Stow it. I know it wasn't your fault. And don't go crying on me either," Carver huffed, pulling his sister into another quick, fierce hug and just as quickly letting her go.

A second wave of healing washed through Anya and she allowed herself to lean against Nathaniel for a brief moment. Flynne examined the wound, now healing, but still raw. He pulled at her cuirass and she untied it, pulling it up at the back. He pushed her cotton shift away in order to apply a bandage.

"Shouldn't leave too bad a scar," the mage said as she settled her leather armor back into place.

"I suppose you came through unscathed," she whispered to Nathaniel.

"Indeed, Warden Commander. You did order me to be careful," he replied dryly. "You, however, were not," he added, a slight condemnation in his tone.

"There will come a day when I'm adept at this new fighting style of mine, but today is not that day," she agreed before raising her voice and calling everyone over. "Can you tell us why the Qunari are attacking?" she asked.

Varric's brows lowered as he frowned. "Because they got tired of waiting for their relic to be returned, and for the chantry to pull their heads out of their asses and rein in their zealots. The zealots killed the viscount's son and blamed the Qunari. That wasn't a good idea. Pissed off the Arishok and he took matters into his own hands. Sodding zealots and sodding horn-heads," he complained. "I warned you, Nate."

"Yes, and I believed you, but I didn't expect anything like this. At least not so soon after the warning."

"I need to get to the keep, I am sure that's where the Arishok has gone," Margaret interjected with a quiet authority that impressed Anya.

"We need to get that fire down on the docks under control. Is there someone reasonable we can talk to at the Circle of Magi? Flynne believes mages can create a storm over the area that will douse the fire, but it will require half a dozen of them. Or more."

Margaret considered the question. "Certainly not Knight-Commander Meredith. Perhaps Knight-Captain Cullen. He's always seemed reasonable and fair-minded."

"Then we'll see to that, unless you need our help in getting to the keep?"

"No, we'll be fine."

"I'll go with them."

Again Margaret and Carver had spoken in unison, and when Margaret shook her head, Carver glared at her. "Too proud to accept my help?" he challenged heatedly.

"No, it's just that – "

"Shut it, Sister," he said and softened his harsh words with a flashing grin that was gone almost before it appeared.

"That is, if it's alright with you, Commander Anya," he added, looking slightly chagrined.

That would leave them down a man, something she didn't like, but she understood his need to accompany his sister. She glanced at Nathaniel and then at Flynne, confident that they would be able to handle any challenge. "Yes, we'll meet up with you as soon as we get the mages to the docks."

"Sebastian, you should go with them. The templars are aware of your relationship with Grand Cleric Elthina; it will help alleviate any concerns they might have."

"Stay safe," Anya instructed and then picked up her bow, preparing to head in the direction of the Gallows.

Margaret pulled her aside and then took her hands, squeezing softly. "Stay away from Darktown; Anders has a clinic there. I'm almost sure he'll remain there, to help with injuries, but if not, be careful. He has seemed…lost…even more than usual."

Anya's heartbeats quickened. "I should be able to feel him through our blood, so I'll sense him before I run into him. I'd just as soon not meet him, if I can avoid it. Thank you, Margaret."

Impulsively she hugged the woman and then stepped back. "We'll be there as soon as we can."

With a final look back at Margaret's group, Anya turned and resolutely headed for the Gallows. The First Warden could strip her of her title as Warden Commander and Arlessa and she would not utter a word of protest. There were more times than not that she felt less like a Warden and more like a bard lately. Having her command taken away would hardly change that.

"What's the quickest way to the Gallows?" she asked.

**~~~oOo~~~~**

He was sharing honey cakes with Fallon when an explosion shook the foundations of the clinic, knocking the small pitcher of cold cider off the table. Fallon jumped out of his seat and ran to the door, his face as pale as parchment. Anders went to him, quietly settling a hand on his shoulder and squeezing tenderly.

"Stay here, Fallon. If anything happens, use the tunnel I showed you earlier. It will take you to Hawke's cellar. I have a room there and you'll be safe. I'll meet you there. I just need to help anyone I can, first."

"No! Don't go, Anders!"

"I have to, Fallon, I'm a healer."

Tears pushed at the boy's lashes and began to trace down his cheeks and his words were bitter when he spoke. "You're just like the rest of 'em. Promising things you don't mean. Go on, then. Go help. I don't need you anyhow."

Anders hesitated, staff and kit in hand, mind already focusing on what to expect… broken limbs, lacerations, concussions. He reached for more elfroot. "I'm not like the others, Fallon, no matter how much you want to make me out to be. I'm trying to keep you safe and I have a duty to help the injured. I _will_ be back."

"Maybe I'll be here when you get back and maybe I won't."

A sigh escaped Anders, a heavy sound as his heart twisted in his chest. "I hope you'll stay, Fallon. You may not need me, but I need you," he said honestly.

The boy looked startled and a pleased smile dashed across his features and disappeared before he turned away from Anders and shrugged. After a final glance at Fallon's rigid back, Anders grabbed his gear and headed out into the chaos, moving swiftly along the narrow alleyways until he was as close to the fire as he could manage. There were bodies everywhere, and he felt a moment's panic at the overwhelming task before him.

Then he heard someone calling for help and he took off at a run. He skidded to a halt, bending down to check the pulse of a man laying face down in the street, wounds oozing blood. Alive, but barely. He raised his staff, whispering the ancient words of a spell that quickly enveloped the man. Without waiting, he was up and moving to the next person.

He felt omnipotent, filled with an incredible sense of invincibility as he went from person to person. Healing, comforting, he felt in charge of his life in a way he hadn't since his first days in the Wardens.

"They say that Areeshok's gone ta kill old Dumar," one man told Anders as the mage set his broken arm.

"That would explain the explosion at the compound."

"Aye, don' it just? And there's them's what say that Hawke lady and her boys is cleanin' up after the Areeshok, battlin' them big horn-headed giants. A'course she'd be. She's a one, ain't she?"

Hands stilling, heart hammering, Anders asked, "Where are they?"

"Seen 'em fightin' near the Hanged Man 'bout ten minutes ago, headin' fer the grand stairs, I'd bet."

Indecision wracked Anders. He should go and help. Margaret was a good healer, but not a great one. Of course, if Merrill was with them, she'd be able to assist.

"How many were with her?" Anders asked, applying a poultice to the broken skin.

"Hmm, as I seen it, were a dwarf, a white-haired elf and a tall bub with dark hair, wearin' some kinda uneeform, appeart like. Ouch! I thought you's a healer!"

Anders apologized as he tied off the ends of the bandage. "Just those three? And what kind of uniform?"

"Just them's as I mentioned. Don't know 'bout the uneeform, but it were silverite mostly."

Frowning, Anders stood and continued towards the fire, absently acknowledging the man's thanks. He stopped and looked out at the inferno, so close he could feel the heat from the flames, the wind from the fire scalding his skin. He stepped back. There was little else he could do at the moment, unless he followed the path of the Qunari as they fought their way to Hightown. He hesitated again, the rush of adrenaline and power evaporating, leaving him worn out.

He stared at the flames, licking at the old wooden buildings, curling up posts to set roofs on fire. There was a savage appeal to the scene, a mesmerizing beauty that seemed to pull him. It would be so easy to step into the heart of the fire. He'd been told that there was an exquisite pain in being burned, and it wouldn't take long for the flesh to be stripped away, for his bones to be bleached, for the thing that lived inside him to -

_**Anders! I will not permit this!**_

Anders winced at the sound of Vengeance's harsh command and he hesitated. The moment was gone and he took a step away from the flames.

_Anya is here! Can you not feel her, Anders? She is near. Let us - _

Disillusionment swelled at the knowledge that the spirit was back, and panic filtered in when he realized that Justice was right. Anders felt it; that connection that all Wardens shared, the bonds of their tainted blood calling to each other. He scratched at his arms, willing the tingling away as he stumbled back and then spun on his heel, hurrying off in the direction of the clinic.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Knight-Captain Cullen was surprisingly agreeable to Anya's request. She turned on her charm, Nathaniel noticed, amused. She opened her blue eyes wide and Nathaniel swore if she batted her eyelashes he wouldn't be able to contain his laughter. Not that the situation was in any way humorous, but he rarely saw the true Orlesian coquette come out. A pang for the life she had given up rose and died away just as quickly. She was where she belonged, that much was obvious.

"Ten ought to be able to manage it," Ser Cullen concluded.

"I will be in your debt, Ser Cullen, as will my compatriots, and I will ensure that everyone knows it was through your good graces that this was accomplished."

The templar blushed and ducked his head, while Nathaniel did his best not to snicker. An odd sounding snort came from Flynne's direction; he was evidently finding it difficult not to laugh as well.

Nathaniel gave credit to Anya for knowing that the helpless female ploy would work on the templar more quickly than cold logic or uncompromising insistence. Within fifteen minutes they were loading two long rowboats and crossing the bay towards the fire. The First Enchanter and a contingent of enchanters and senior enchanters were crammed into the boats with an equal number of templars.

Anya, huddled beside him, rested her hand in his. "How's your back?" he asked quietly.

"Sore, but better. It won't slow me down," she assured him, a proud lift to her chin.

"Of course it won't."

Squeezing his hand, she whispered, "You worry more than is healthy, Nathaniel. Truly."

Well, he'd been told that often enough that he believed her. But it seemed a prudent trait, considering her penchant for running headlong into battle. Not, he conceded, that she didn't know exactly what she was doing, even at her most precipitous, but he was looking forward to a quiet sea voyage to Val Royeaux. Or what he hoped would be a quiet sea voyage.

They tied the boats up as close to the fire as they dared and helped the mages to disembark. The noise of the conflagration was nearly deafening and the flames so intense that his skin felt tight and hot from it, as if the moisture had been sucked out of him by the heat. Cullen and the First Enchanter, Orsino, were discussing where the mages should begin casting. Anya was with them, listening intently and then he saw the color drain from her face. She took a step forward and then stopped, her eyes quickly scanning the crowd that had started to gather once the danger had passed.

He moved quickly, pushing his way through the throng to reach her side. "What is it?"

"I – I thought…no, it's nothing," she said, shaking her head and giving him a half-hearted smile.

"We need to get to the keep. The Qunari forces are probably there, judging by how many people are out and about again."

She nodded and glanced around, pausing to tilt her head, and it was only then that he realized what she was doing. His hands moved to the hilts of his daggers. _Anders_. Nathaniel was so used to blocking out the prickling sensation from the tainted blood of his fellow Wardens that he hadn't noticed it until he saw the concern in her. He allowed himself to concentrate on the call in his blood and felt it, realizing it was growing fainter as he stood there. Had it been Anders or Stroud? Did it even matter? Whoever it was, he was moving away. He found it _did_ matter, his anger simmering beneath his concerns.

"We need to get to the keep," he repeated gruffly, putting his hand under her elbow and guiding her away. Of course it was Anders. Stroud would have made himself known.

Anya, limping beside him, let out a soft sigh, the pretense falling away. "Do you suppose the anger will ever go away?"

Nathaniel's hand tightened on her elbow. He preferred her anger to the bouts of melancholy she'd suffered for months after Anders had nearly killed her. He resisted saying what he wanted to; until Anders was dead there was an open wound that time couldn't seem to heal.

"The real question is whether there will ever come a point in time when we just don't give a damn about him."

**~~~oOo~~~**

They fought their way to the keep one block at a time. Fenris and Carver fell into their old rhythms and patterns of fighting back to back, shortening their swing to prevent hitting the other. A part of Margaret felt disconnected from the battle; watching her brother and the man she loved fighting together again reminded her of what she had lost in the years since she'd arrived in Kirkwall, and what she had gained.

The battle inside the main foyer of the keep was bloody. A group of soldiers and mage handlers were determined to prevent them from entering the throne room. The Saarebas's spells were fueled by that determination, knocking Carver and Fenris off their feet to land halfway across the room. Varric focused his efforts on the Qunari mage and by the time both Carver and Fenris were up again, the Saarebas was dead. The other soldiers fell quickly after that.

Carver pushed open the door to the throne room and he and Fenris stepped in, poised for battle. Margaret forced herself not to turn away, not to gag as her gorge rose. The viscount's headless body was nowhere to be seen, but his head was proudly displayed on the throne in a macabre display that made it difficult for her to breathe.

"_Shanedan_, Hawke," the Arishok greeted. He turned to the small group of nobles that had assembled at the keep. "This," he continued, pointing at her, "is what honor looks like."

Was he mad, she wondered, noticing the wild gleam in his eyes. Had he finally reached the end of his patience or had his mind snapped? What could she possibly say that would calm rather than incite?

"We seem to be at an impasse, Arishok. The guards and templars are mustering in the courtyard. It won't be long before they storm the keep. You will die," Margaret said, trying to keep her voice from quavering.

"I am already dead, Serah Hawke. The relic I sought is gone, there are no ships coming for us and I cannot return home without both relic and a ship to sail in. I am dead," he reiterated. "All that remains is this pustule of a city that has killed me. I will raze it to the ground before I die."

"Is there no hope of finding your relic? Can't we help you find it? And when it's found surely ships could be provided for your return to your homeland. Have you no idea where the relic is?"

Keep him talking, she told herself frantically. Keep him talking until I figure out what to do. Oh Maker, keep him talking.

"You will know the answer better than I."

"How will I know the answer? The answer to what?" she asked, bewildered. Her fear trembled within her, a prisoner begging to be set free. She concentrated on breathing.

"Parshaara! You deny your companion, the Rivaini, has the relic? Is that not why she is absent?"

Margaret felt as if the floor had dropped out from beneath her feet, the odd sensation of falling while standing perfectly still unnerving. She wanted to deny his accusations but there were snippets of conversations that haunted her thoughts, whispering that he had spoken the truth.

"Your expression tells me you knew nothing of this."

"That bitch," Varric muttered angrily. "I'd kill her if she hadn't taken our ship and run."

"All this time she knew why the Qunari were here and she did nothing," Margaret replied in a low voice. "What was she thinking?" A murderous rage replaced the numbing fear, flaring hotly but only for a moment before it receded, leaving her feeling shaky.

"It does not matter what she was thinking. She is gone," Fenris said softly. There was a resignation in his voice that made Margaret's nerves jump and snap, a shiver tracing along her spine like an icy finger.

Taking a deep breath, she met the Arishok's gaze unflinchingly. "I assure you I had no idea, Arishok. But she is gone. She appropriated our ship and set sail over an hour ago. If you hurry you might yet catch her. There is someone here who would give you a ship, I'm sure," she said reasonably, a wild hope springing up that they might yet salvage the situation.

"It is too late for that, Hawke, but your honesty has always been of value. You alone are basalit-an. And you alone are worthy enough to fight me."

"Fight you? How will that be of any benefit?" she blurted, a note of panic straining her voice.

"If you win, your city is safe and my men will retreat. If you lose, this city will be purified."

"You would burn an entire city to prove a point?"

A bleak and bitter smile twisted the Arishok's face. "There is nothing of worth in this city except you, and you will be dead."

The air sailed out of her lungs as his words sank in. Trying to find something to say that would refute his twisted logic, she found only the tumbling thoughts of a chaotic mind. Long, silent moments later, she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. "If it will end this, I will fight you."

"No! Sister, I will fight him!" Carver exclaimed, stepping forward, his look mulish and determined.

Fenris shook his head. "Should you attempt such a thing, the Arishok's men will strike you down. As much as we detest the idea, _she_ must fight him."

"You coward! You butcher children and women! You kill innocent people! There's no honor in that, no courage! You aren't good enough to fight Margaret! You aren't worthy! You want your damned relic so badly then get off your arse and go get it instead of pissing and moaning about it!" Carver shouted, shaking off the restraining hand Margaret had placed on his arm.

"Silence!" roared the Arishok.

"Carver, don't do this," Margaret pleaded, placing her hand on his arm again. He flashed a boyish grin at her, seemingly unafraid by the prospect of fighting the Arishok in personal combat. Was he insane too? Had the entire city gone mad, she wondered again. Yet, even as she thought that she felt a wave of pride in him temporarily wash away the panic and, for a brief moment, calm wrapped around her. But as suddenly as the calm came, the panic returned, the nearly mind-numbing fear of losing one more person in her life.

"Maggie, it's about time I stepped up and acted like the man of the family, don't you think?" he asked, his smile coming out; brief and bright.

"I can't let you do this, Carver. If I lost you as well, I couldn't bear it," Margaret begged, tears pooling and slipping silently down. "Let me do this. If I stumble, if I can't manage it, then you can step in and finish the fight for me."

Carver patted her cheek lightly as he shook his head. "Kirkwall will need you when this is over. They look up to you; they know you've done good things for the city, and they'll need you to do even more. Besides, I'm a Warden now; I can wipe the floor with him," he boasted with another fleeting grin.

Who was the man who stood before her so confidently? Certainly not the bitter, angry boy who had left with the Wardens. He'd found himself; found a place in his life where he was happy. Unable to take that away from him, to deny him what he felt he needed to do, she gave him a tremulous smile and nodded once.

"I know you can," she whispered around her tears. "And Carver? I love you."

"Oh, nice, embarrass me in front of everyone," he grumbled and then ducked his head, clearly both pleased and mortified.

The Arishok studied Margaret silently, before moving his gaze to Carver, who stood with weapon drawn in a protective stance. A strange light came into his eyes as she watched, as if the madness that had compelled him to start a war had faded, replaced by a longing that she didn't understand. If she had to guess, she would say he seemed envious over what had just transpired. Was he homesick? Missing someone important in his life? She was stunned to find herself feeling a certain sympathy for him.

The silence stretched and lengthened - breaths held, tongues stayed - as all eyes focused on the tableau taking place in front of the throne.

Margaret shifted slightly, mentally counting the number of Qunari in the room. There were twenty standing behind the Arishok, grim-faced and stoic. If it came down to it, she thought they might be able to win a fight against them, if they had the element of surprise on their side. She couldn't give a tinker's damn about an honorable duel with the Arishok, she cared about saving as many lives as she could.

She allowed a quick glance at Fenris and Varric. Would they understand what she was doing if she attacked without warning? Would they respond quickly? She knew the Arishok and his personal guard would focus on her. Could she erect a strong enough barrier around herself to survive the onslaught?

And still the silence continued, magnified by every second that passed. A Qunari stepped forward and whispered something to the Arishok, who frowned pensively. Margaret felt a growing frustration, a primal need to scream, as she waited. Every muscle in her body was coiled, aching with the strain of not moving.

"_You_ will prepare a ship," the Arishok finally dictated, pointing at Margaret, before he and his followers strode from the room.

A dizzying sense of relief flooded into her at his words, and for a minute she thought she might faint. The room seemed to darken and fade, tilting oddly before righting itself, and she found she was able to breathe again.

Shock, pride, anger, grief – myriad emotions were all waiting - but at that moment, relief rose above them all. She was dimly aware of a dull roar in the chamber and she looked around to see people cheering, heard them calling out her name.

"It figures they'd be cheering _you_ when _I'm_ the one who sent the bloody bastard on his way," Carver groused, not bothering to hide his relieved grin.


	36. A Sea of Ash

**A/N: **_Filler chapter is…filler. In other words: point A, meet point B.  
>Thank you, Lisa, as always, for your speedy, helpful beta goodness!<br>And thank you to all those reading, alerting and reviewing. _

**A Sea of Ash**

"You look terrible in black," Nathaniel commented, running his fingertip down Anya's cheek and showing her the soot covering it.

"This from the man who claims he loves me," she retorted, slapping at his finger.

She felt a release of tension in her shoulders as she chuckled. She stretched her back, her laughter dying away as she surveyed the scene before her. The moment of levity only served to illustrate how horrific the situation was, but it also provided a way to break the stress before it broke her.

The sun had risen on a blackened city for a third straight day. It was as if they had made no progress at all since the attack. A heavy pall of smoke and ash hung in the air, making breathing a chore. The sea was dark with ash and appeared glassy in the stillness. Not even a breath of wind stirred the air, and the sky was a bleak expanse of reflected grey. Clouds of ash swirled with every step she took and she wondered how long it would be before the air was clean and sweet again.

The Qunari had departed the night they'd set the city ablaze, using one of the few remaining ships in the harbor, escorted by Margaret and her friends. How they had navigated around the burning ships Anya had no idea and she shuddered to think what had happened to the crew, although most of them had been left ashore before the ship cast off.

Many of the vessels that had not sailed before the explosion had burned and were little more than skeletal husks, half buried in their watery graves. Those that remained seaworthy were unable to steer around the wreckage to the open sea. It would take weeks to clear out the harbor so the large merchant ships could once again dock in Kirkwall.

In the interim, longboats and flat barges were the only means of safe travel out to the few ships anchored in the deeper channels. A few caravels, because they were light and built for speed and shallow water, were docked at the Gallows. One such ship, the _Abeona_, was sailing for Val Royeaux in two day's time and she had managed to secure passage for five aboard it.

The mages had finally extinguished all of the fires that had dotted various districts of Kirkwall, and many had returned to the Gallows under templar escort. A few mages had remained, along with a handful of templars and were assisting with the wounded in a largely intact warehouse that had been converted into a field hospital. Flynne spent most of his waking hours there. Carver spent his time divided between helping his sister and assisting Flynne.

There were more dead than injured; early estimates put the total loss of life at nearly four hundred. There were still over a hundred people missing. A contingent of men and women, gloved and grim-faced, were gathering the bodies into one area. As Anya and Nathaniel continued to search the gutted buildings that had borne the brunt of the explosion and subsequent fire, she noted that several members of the chantry were also on scene and were helping, their voices a murmuring sigh of prayers that had come much too late to save those who'd perished.

Carrying a bucket, Sebastian, his white armor streaked with ash and soot, his face pale and drawn, moved among the wounded, offering comfort and water from a ladle, occasionally kneeling in prayer. Varric was also assisting, but Margaret was at Viscount's Keep along with a group of nobles, the knight-commander of the templars, the grand cleric, the seneschal and the captain of the city guard. They were determining how best to restore the government.

Few people were venturing abroad, and those who did were usually searching for missing loved ones. There was an undercurrent of grief present in everyone they encountered and Anya was reminded of Amaranthine immediately following the darkspawn attack. Her heart ached for their losses and suffering.

Beneath the other concerns was the worry that she would encounter Anders, and when she allowed herself to examine that fear, she realized how ridiculous and out of place it was. There were so many other things to be concerned about, to concentrate on; that she wasted even a moment on Anders angered her.

Exhausted, Anya sank onto a wooden crate and leaned her head against the wall of a once flourishing shop. Nathaniel handed her a waterskin and she drank deeply before returning it to him with a weary smile. She stretched out her legs with a small grimace as her muscles protested.

"You should go and check on our prisoner and get some rest, Anya."

She lifted a brow. "We both should. We _all _should. I haven't seen Carver this morning. It is still morning, isn't it?"

Her eyelids drooped and she allowed herself to drift for several minutes. There was much that needed to be done for the city, but there were bigger concerns that also needed attending to. She wasn't sure she had the energy to push forward and discover just how deeply the corruption within the Orlesian government, not to mention the Grey Wardens, ran. Was Celene working with Magnus to ensure allies should a civil war break out in Orlais?

A gentle hand on her shoulder made her stir. Sitting up, she blinked. "Did I doze off? Maker, I feel old."

"Go and get some rest, Anya. No one will think the less of you for it."

"I thought to make my way to Hightown first. Margaret has offered the use of her home and I admit to a feminine need for a bath in rose-scented water, as well as freshly shampooed hair," she added, indicating her tightly braided hair, now more grey than red, thanks to the particles of ash in the air.

"In that case, I'll walk with you. I wouldn't mind a respite."

It took them nearly an hour to make their way to Margaret's Hightown manor and Nathaniel was practically carrying her by then because of the pain in her hip and thigh. Her brace, still sitting in the small bedroom in the Warden house, had been neglected for the past few days and that fact was made obvious by the stiffness in her muscles.

They were greeted by Bodahn, who ordered tea and food to be prepared. While they were eating, he had a tub filled with steaming water and scented with oil of roses. Anya wolfed down her food, barely tasting it, and as soon as she was finished she pushed the plate away and mounted the stairs, each step a torture of its own. Entering the guest room, where a large tin tub held center stage, she stripped out of her filthy leathers with little regard for modesty.

Nathaniel slipped into the room a few minutes later, his hair wet and unbraided, dressed in clean clothes. He knelt down beside the tub, taking up the cloth and soap. "I suppose it's too much to hope you'll allow yourself a break after this? Perhaps a nap?"

She leaned forward, offering her back to him, sighing contentedly as the cloth stroked along her skin. "I need to get back to see our prisoner and also find my brace. I'm not nearly as foolish as you'd like to believe," she added, offering him a weary smile.

"I don't believe you're foolish, Anya, just stubborn."

She splashed a bit of water in his direction. "Thank you. Stubborn and foolish go hand in hand, don't they?"

"I'm serious. You do yourself no favors by running yourself to the brink of exhaustion."

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" she chastised, softening her remark with a smile. It was his turn to splash water at her.

"Point taken, Warden Commander," he replied in a lighter tone.

"I will heed your advice, however, because I am not nearly as stubborn as you believe, either."

"Indeed? In that case, I propose a nap for both of us, followed by a trip to the Lowtown house for a check on our prisoner."

"Proposal accepted."

Moments later, having shampooed three days worth of soot, ash and dirt from her hair, she stood and Nathaniel, smiling, wrapped a towel around her and scooped her up, setting her on her feet in front of the low-burning fire. With a grateful sigh, she slipped into a soft cotton nightdress. Nathaniel shrugged off his clothes and led her to the bed.

She fell into a deep sleep moments later.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"I told you, Fallon, it's not safe on the streets," Anders reiterated, trying to keep his impatience in check. It tickled along his nerves and he found himself clenching his hands into fists.

"I just want to check on my friends."

"Tell me where they are and I'll do it for you."

Fallon stormed out of the clinic to the living quarters, the door slamming behind him. He had become more and more argumentative and hostile over the course of the past three days and Anders had no idea why.

While it was true that he was preoccupied, he had not deliberately ignored the boy, taking time each evening to prepare supper and spend several hours with him, but it didn't seem to be enough. He was doing the best he could, given the circumstances, and it frustrated Anders that the young boy couldn't seem to understand that.

_**Children are, by nature, self absorbed and grasping creatures.**_

**How would you know anything about children?**

_**Now, now, Anders. All I know of children I have learned from you. Are your thoughts on them incorrect?**_

**I don't have time for your taunts; there are people who need help.**

_**Only a frightened man sees so narrowly, Anders.**_

**What does that ambiguous rubbish mean?**

The pain was excruciating, doubling Anders over as he clutched his head and he forced himself to stand upright, gritting his teeth as the pain stabbed into his skull.

**So this is your idea of justice? Of fairness?**

_**Fairness? What a quaint notion. Justice does not work, Anders. Even you should know that by now. I see how man seeks justice, not with mercy, but through retribution. I am merely a reflection of your true thoughts.**_

**You lie! I'm nothing like that. Nothing!**

_**Truly? What have you to say about Fallon? What happened to him in the past…was that justice? Or was that retaliation? **_

**I don't know what you're talking about. How would I know what happened to him in the past? I'm trying to save him!**

_**Lie to yourself if you must, Anders, but do not lie to me. I am privy to all that you have ever been, ever done, ever thought. **_

Anders shook his head, a deep-rooted panic twisting in him, making him feel queasy and disoriented. Closing his eyes, he fought to calm his thoughts.

_Do not allow him to provoke you, Anders. He will lead you into greater danger._

**Enough! Both of you! I can't fight you and still help Fallon.**

_**Fallon? You mean the **_**mages**_**, don't you? **_ The warning was clear in tone and words. Anders knew better than to ignore it.

**Of course that's what I mean. You're confusing me, damn you to the Void!**

_**A curious curse, but if your intent was to still my voice, I will grant you a respite. For the moment. **_

He could almost feel the rush of sweet, clean air as he breathed in. Silence was restored, and with it came a veneer of calm. If he kept himself busy enough, his mind didn't stray to Anya and the fact that she was still in Kirkwall. He'd made discreet inquiries and discovered that she was actually helping with the clean-up, despite the tenets of the Grey Wardens to avoid any assistance in political matters. It was so like her to come to the aid of those in need, regardless of what her orders were.

It still hurt to realize she was with Nathaniel; that she'd so easily let go of what they had shared. He knew it was his fault, but it rankled that she had never responded to his letter of apology. It was foolish, he knew, foolish and fanciful, but he allowed his mind to play out a fantasy that she returned to his side, to stand with him as he freed the mages. It was a fantasy he had allowed himself on many occasions. There had even been a brief dream that they would stay together, traveling Thedas to free other circles from the tyranny of the Chantry.

Bitterness lanced through him, reminding him of the harsh realities of life. Glancing around the empty clinic, he moved to the door that Fallon had disappeared through. Without pausing, he opened it and stepped into the cramped quarters.

"Fallon?" he called, the dregs of his thoughts turning his voice thin and reedy. He cleared his throat. "Fallon?" he called again, his voice gaining strength.

He found the boy curled up on his cot with the blankets pulled over his head. Anders knelt beside the bed and placed a light hand on the back of Fallon's head, fingers stroking through the dark blonde hair. "I care for you, Fallon, you know that. But my work is important to me."

"You're jus' like Da," the young boy accused.

"Da? You have a father? Where is he?" Anders asked, all but tripping over his words in his shock at the revelation.

The boy stilled, remaining silent. A hiccupping sob escaped him and then another before the silence became complete. Anders gave the boy a gentle nudge. "Tell me about your da," he instructed.

The boy shrugged off Anders's hand. "You know good an' proper what he were like," the boy muttered, before falling silent.

How could he possibly know what Fallon's father was like? Why did the boy have to give him such aggravation? Anders was silent for several moments, intent on waiting the boy out, but impatience pushed him to prod the boy. "No, I don't, Fallon. Why would I?"

The young boy didn't answer – he'd dozed off. Staring down at him, Anders felt weariness wrap around him, leaving him exhausted. Moving to his own cot, he lay down, closing his eyes against a growing dread.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"I suggest that we take the additional food and clothing down to the districts most affected by the fires. I'll distribute them," Margaret offered.

"The chantry is more suited to that, my child, but thank you for the generous offer. I will have the matron of the orphanage and her assistants begin the distribution at once," Grand Cleric Elthina added in a voice etched with weariness.

The older woman was clearly drained, but unwilling to slow down, despite her advanced age. Margaret felt a surprising stir of admiration for the woman she often considered ineffectual. In the matter of charity, she was clearly not.

In the past four days there had been a number of tense moments. One had occurred when First Enchanter Orsino and Knight Commander Meredith had nearly come to blows over whether the mages should be granted special privileges in recognition of their service to the city. In settling the argument, Elthina had managed to insult both of them and, while she seemed oblivious to it, Margaret felt certain they hadn't heard the last of it. It was only luck that more of the wealthy denizens of Hightown had not heard the argument so the harsh words wouldn't be repeated, but it served as a cautionary tale of how disparate the two were in their views.

Glancing at the seneschal, Margaret moved to his side. His face was gaunt, eyes hollowed by grief. Delicately, she placed a hand on his arm. "Seneschal Bran, you're exhausted. I recommend we break for the day and meet again tomorrow."

More and more of the decisions seemed to be falling on her shoulders and she could only hope that would change as the grief and shock wore off. She knew nothing of running a government, or a city.

She glanced at the knight-commander and felt her resolve to stay out of the business of government waver. There was something completely disconcerting about Meredith and her intense dislike of mages, her suspicion that they were all scheming lunatics or conniving demons. As the ranking templar, she had more authority than any other, save Elthina. But even Elthina seemed to have trouble standing up to the woman.

There had been a few tense moments after the Arishok had departed when they had been formally introduced. The knight commander had demanded to know why a mage was not in the Gallows, under the supervision of the templars. Fenris had stepped between the knight commander and Margaret, sword at the ready and the knight commander had produced hers as well. A stressful standoff had ensued, not eased until Margaret had produced her paper, signed by both the grand cleric and the viscount, authorizing her as an agent of Kirkwall, with rights afforded any other agent of Kirkwall, including free movement.

Meredith had not been pleased and had stated that without the viscount's continued sponsorship the paper was no longer valid. She had proceeded to demand the paper be turned over immediately, adding that she expected Margaret to submit to the templars straight away.

To everyone's surprise, it had been Seneschal Bran who'd intervened. "I am afraid that your authority does not extend to this matter, Knight Commander Meredith, as the grand cleric has also signed the document."

With great reluctance, Meredith had relaxed her stance and sheathed her weapon. "So be it. But should I find you are inciting other mages, I shall make sure you are placed in the Circle, champion or not."

"I would advise against such action without the authority of the grand cleric," Fenris had warned coldly. "I doubt the citizens would tolerate their champion being locked up."

Another few moments had passed and then Meredith, eyes narrowed and cold, had nodded and the topic of conversation had changed. Four days after the event, however, had not lessened the animosity of the parties, something that Margaret found especially wearying.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I want to spend this evening with my brother and the other Grey Wardens who came to the aid of Kirkwall. They will be departing tomorrow."

"Of course, Champion. I suggest we all take the time to attend to personal matters and return to the keep the day after tomorrow," Elthina agreed and with that, the meeting broke up. "And Margaret, please extend my appreciation to the Warden Commander and her companions. They have proven to be true friends of Kirkwall during this trying time."

"I will do so, Your Eminence."

Arriving at the mansion a short time later, she was pleased to discover that both Carver and Fenris were there, sharing stories with a warmth that surprised her. She paused in the doorway of the study to watch them, a smile resting easily on her lips and her fatigue easing. Carver was talking about a fight they'd had in fog and Fenris was commiserating.

Margaret felt connected to both men, felt as though the bonds of family were inextricably linked now and no longer broken. She took a step into the room, only then noticing that the young mage, Flynne, was also in the room, seated in a wing-backed chair near the fire, staring up at Carver with a warm smile of affection.

"Good evening," she said once there was a pause in the conversation.

Fenris moved to her side, a solicitous, grave smile gracing his handsome face. "You are exhausted, Margaret. Sit and I will have a glass of wine brought to you."

Another smile came to her lips and she gladly sat down in the chair opposite Flynne. "Will Anya be here this evening? And Nathaniel?" she asked, allowing her bones to melt into the comfortable contours of the chair.

"Yes, they're just securing our…guest, first," her brother replied.

"Securing someone suggests a prisoner, not a guest. Not," she added with a wave of her hand, "that I want to know one way or the other."

"Fenris is right. You look knackered, Sis. Why don't you have a lie down?"

The concern in his voice was a pleasant surprise and she felt her smile grow. "Careful, Carver, people will say you care," she teased.

"Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?" he asked, glaring with exaggerated fierceness at her only to have Flynne snort.

"You look as formidable as a puppy," the Warden mage teased, grinning as color suffused Carver's cheeks. "I still find it impossible to believe you frightened the Arishok into leaving."

"Margaret, did you really have to invite this scruffy mage? He's completely unfit to be in polite company."

"Scruffy? I'll have you know this robe cost a month's wages!"

She was laughing at their good-natured teasing by the time Fenris returned, her fatigue lightened by the mood around her. The connection she had felt earlier grew as Anya and Nathaniel arrived. Warm greetings, as well as summations of their individual days, were exchanged, refreshments served and a festive air permeated the room. The painful and brutal previous four days receded, their laughter a welcome respite.

Anya had changed out of her ubiquitous Warden uniform into a dress of soft wool in a dove grey, gathered just under her breasts and flowing loosely to the floor, dark blue ribbons adorning the high waist. Margaret realized the dress hid Anya's twisted hip and made her appear taller. Anya noticed her appraisal and smiled wryly.

"The seamstress calls it an empire style, after Empress Celene, but I call it smoke and mirrors," the redhead explained with a bright smile. "It distracts the eye with its long straight lines, while hiding any obvious imperfections. It's quite brilliant, actually."

Margaret nodded, admiring the other woman's casual tone, but she saw there was a deeper pain hidden beneath the woman's bright smile, one put there by Anders, who had been blessedly absent from the scene. Thanks to Varric's connections, she'd learned that he'd spent the time aiding the wounded in Darktown, avoiding any direct assistance in Lowtown. From what she'd learned, Anders was aware of Anya's presence and had chosen to stay away.

"Has there been any word on your ship? Or the woman who commandeered it?" Anya asked.

"Not yet, although a longboat came in this afternoon and the crew claimed to have seen a merchant ship scuttled on a reef a day's travel east of Kirkwall. Isabela is particularly adept at keeping herself safe so I doubt she was aboard when it went aground."

A lull in the conversation followed, but before it became heavy, dinner was announced, as was Gamlen. He'd stayed with Margaret long enough to determine that his home was still standing and, with gruff thanks and an awkward hug, he'd left, promising to return and visit with Carver.

"It's good to see you, Uncle Gamlen," she welcomed.

"I told you I'd be back to see Carver. Didn't trust me, eh?" he grunted with a surly glare.

She sighed, unsure whether to hug her uncle or box his ears at his stubborn pride. She decided a hug was the proper way to approach him. He was flustered and even gruffer but beneath it she thought he looked pleased and he seemed to enjoy the companionship of those gathered at the table.

As the evening spun on, Margaret made her way upstairs to her room. She sat down in front of the trunk that held the remains of her life in Lothering, as well as a few mementos of her present life. She took out a small glass phial and slipped it into a pocket before making her way back down the stairs to the lively crowd in the parlor, who were reluctantly making their farewells.

"Carver, I have a favor to ask. Take this and sprinkle it where we sprinkled some of Father's ashes. I think both Mother and Father would like that."

Carver looked at it and then at her, incredulous. "You want me to carry a phial of Mother's ashes all over Orlais?"

An old and familiar frustration wound around her heart. "Please, Carver, just do this for me."

Carver made a low sound of irritation and then took the phial on the wings of a long sigh. "Fine, consider it done."

Flynne cleared his throat loudly, bringing a dark red splash of color to Carver's cheeks. Margaret hid a smile as she realized her brother obviously cared what Flynne thought of him. She dared not thank the mage for fear of upsetting the delicate balance she and her brother had discovered.

"Sorry," Carver muttered, sliding the phial into his pocket. "I'll do it when I can."

Hours later she stood in her room, the house dark and quiet except for the occasional creaks and groans typical of an old structure. Sleep eluded her grasp and she stood at the window, watching the first faint golden streaks begin to illuminate the eastern sky as light pierced the clouds for the first time in five days. There was a soft sigh of wind pushing at the leaves, promising to scatter the clouds and push the tides.

For the first time in days, she allowed hope to enter.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Sailing out of the soot-befouled city and ash-clogged bay into the bright blue of the Waking Sea was liberating for all of them. For Nathaniel, standing on the forecastle deck, it was almost as if he'd woken from a bad dream to discover a bright new world.

The sun was a warm and welcome friend, the air filled with the salty tang of the sea, the wind crisp and cool, setting his cheeks tingling under its touch. He spent nearly the entire first day at sea standing in the open, allowing the wind to blow out the soot and ash that seemed to cling to everything. Anya, once she'd settled the prisoner, joined him for more than an hour, and neither of them spoke, content merely to breathe deeply and allow the sun and wind to caress their skin.

The next day passed in much the manner as the first. There was need for further interrogations of the prisoner, she had decided, and she explained that they would disembark in Val Royeaux with him bound, but exposed. She hoped that whoever had sent him would see him as a prisoner and make an attempt on his life, thus exposing himself, or frightening Rousel into talking. It was a risky plan and one that showed the hard, pragmatic side of her that had become more finely honed after Anders's attack on her.

He didn't disagree with her, even when she asked him his thoughts on the subject, mostly because it was a bold but logical plan. He might worry for her safety but it wasn't a lack of belief in her abilities, rather a fear born of his love for her and he was trying to keep that separate, to evaluate her plans through the eyes of a soldier and not a lover. It was not an easy exercise.

The cabin was barely big enough for one, let alone two, but Nathaniel and Anya had insisted they could manage, and so they had. They had given the larger cabin to Carver, Flynne and Rousel, who was kept tied to a chair and gagged during the day and was lashed to his bunk at night. So far, to Nathaniel's relief, Rousel had not caused a problem.

He sighed and shifted slightly, unwilling to wake Anya who was pressed tightly against him in the small bunk. She stirred, murmuring in her sleep. Nathaniel couldn't quite make out what she said only that she sounded as if she was fretting about her mother. He smiled, drowsy and content beside her, allowing himself to doze off again, more content and relaxed than he had been in months.

Morning arrived, and with it a steaming cup of coffee. Anya, dressed in her usual dark grey leathers, was smiling as she held out the mug and he pushed himself up, making room for her, before he accepted her offering.

"How did you manage to rise, dress and depart without waking me? Or trip over the chest again?" he asked around a pleased smile.

"I could have danced on the bunk and not awoken you as soundly as you were sleeping. In point of fact, I did trip over the chest, I knocked your bow and quiver off their hook, and the wind caught the door and slammed it as I departed, yet you didn't stir."

Carefully setting the mug aside, he pulled her close, kissing her soundly. "And the Iron Crucible? Where did it end up this morning?"

She laughed softly. "Under the bunk, where I quite happily kicked it, though my toe disagreed with my decision."

"Have you spoken to the captain?" he asked, reaching for his mug now that she was settled securely at his side.

"Indeed. He assures me that we shall slip into port before evensong, which, I might add, cannot be heard above the chant sung by the Divine's Holy Choir."

"Good, the nearer to dusk it is when we debark, the happier I'll be. You're sure your brother will assist us?" Nathaniel asked, bracing himself for her wrath.

She surprised him, her voice an odd mixture of sorrow and pride. "Of course he will assist us. He is a Caron first and foremost, though he will not be happy to see who our prisoner is."

Nathaniel didn't respond for long moments, content to sip his coffee and feel Anya's warm breath against his shoulder. Finally, he set his mug aside once again and slid off the bed, reaching for his clothes. "Rousel seems convinced he is a Caron as well," he said quietly, once again bracing himself. And once again she surprised him.

"Of course he does. The Carons are Empress Celene's favored family connection. There are any number of cousins who would wish to be Carons. My father is also unnaturally wealthy; who wouldn't want a piece of such a fortune?"

He turned to her, smiling. "Exactly. That's my interest in you, of course."

She tossed a pillow at him, her eyes narrowing. "If there was even a scintilla of truth to that I would order your beheading the moment we landed in Val Royeaux," she announced with studied nonchalance.

"Even a scintilla? You're a harsh mistress."

"Ah, but I am your harsh mistress, so I wouldn't complain too loudly, were I you," she teased, gracing him with a bright smile.

The trip from Kirkwall had been punctuated by moments of lighthearted playfulness; times when Anya reminded him of the young woman whose joy in life had first attracted his attention. Seeing her learning to accept her new life gave him a greater measure of relief than he'd known he needed. He could only hope their time in Orlais would not destroy her newfound assurance.

"Are you confident we will all be welcomed by your parents? I'm sure there is room for us at the Grey Warden compound in Val Royeaux."

"Nathaniel Howe, tell me you aren't afraid of meeting my parents," Anya teased, easing herself off the bed to hobble towards him. The ship lurched and pitched, throwing her into him and he held her tightly, dropping a light kiss on her crown.

"Only because you have yet to agree to…" he trailed off with a shrug. "No, I am not."

Her eyebrow arched. "If there is a question you have asked me and I have yet to answer, perhaps it needs to be asked again?"

"The question can wait for another time," Nathaniel replied quietly.

He refused to ask her to marry him while they stood in the cramped, airless cabin. There would be time, and a suitable place, in Val Royeaux for such a question. He also wanted to speak to her father, to assure him that he had no interest in her wealth and if he had to sign an oath to the man stating as much, he would do so gladly.

They were interrupted by a loud pounding on their cabin door, followed immediately by Flynne's voice. "Commander? Captain Xavier wants to see you. A ship, flying the royal colors of Empress Celene is just off the starboard bow. They've lowered a small boat, and they're asking permission to board."

"Surely he doesn't need my counsel on the matter," Anya replied, opening the door to admit Flynne.

The young mage stayed where he was, his expression grim. Nathaniel felt his stomach twist into knots at Flynne's next words.

"It's you they want to see."


	37. The Myth of Family

**A/N: **_My thanks to my beta and friend, Lisa! You are goddess sent!  
>Thank you to all those who lurk, read and review, I appreciate it more than I can say.<em>

**The Myth of Family**

Morning was still an unfulfilled promise, the skies outside the drape-covered windows a pale lavender and grey. Not even the birds were awake, and the fire in the hearth was nothing more than memory.

Glancing up from the stack of letters on her desk, Margaret found Fenris's eyes on her, his face a mask of control, but she saw the hint of disapproval in his eyes. "What is it, Fenris?" she asked, carefully setting her quill in the inkpot, concern slowly wakening.

"You had only four hours of sleep. There is nothing in the correspondence that cannot wait."

She bowed her head to hide the smile of relief and tenderness that rose. He sounded like a scolding father and she wondered if he had any idea how suited he was for the role. A pang caught her unexpectedly as she realized children were probably not in their future. It was something she had always been aware of as a mage; with magic running so strongly in her family, the likelihood of mage children was strong and she wasn't about to condemn them to the life that meant. She pushed the thoughts back into the darker regions of her mind.

"I couldn't sleep, and rather than toss and turn all night I thought to get ahead of my work. Not that I have. I think leaving all these letters and lists alone in the dark was a mistake…they seem to have multiplied."

He moved to the fire, picking up a poker and stirring the cold ashes in search of living coals. She stood and walked to his side, her smile growing at his look of frustration. She was tempted to use her magic to light the fire but he was intent on bringing it back to life on his own, and he was still not comfortable with displays of the more mundane use of magic.

"I thought we could have everyone over tonight for a family dinner. It's been so hectic that we've not had a chance to just gather and give thanks that we're alive," she said, careful to keep her voice neutral.

"Did we not just have your brother and uncle here? Are they not family?"

Another smile, quickly hidden because she didn't want him to think she was laughing at him, skimmed her lips and was gone. He took such words literally, and his own family provoked little or no memories in him. "They are blood family, yes, but I had in mind to invite those friends who are as close as family. And perhaps poor Seneschal Bran. He looks so lost right now."

"The man has never considered us better than common thieves and brigands. He has treated us with nothing but disdain in the past," Fenris protested forcefully, stepping back to admire his handiwork as the fire began to flicker to life.

"He's lost his family, Fenris," she remonstrated. "They may not have been of his blood, but they were a part of his family. Would you really begrudge him a seat at our table?"

A strange expression settled on his face and he studied her carefully. "Our table," he repeated and the words were soft and light. A smile came to rest on his lips. "Then let us gather _our_ family around _our_ table," he agreed, his arm coming to rest around her waist. "But should Anders pontificate on the evils of templars and the Chantry, I shall remove him from our table without hesitation."

Fenris's slow metamorphosis from bitter mage-hater to the man who smiled and teased, who loved a mage, gave Margaret's laughter wings. She felt lighter than she had in days and knew that with him at her side, all things became possible. It gave her a sense of peace she hadn't known for longer than she cared to admit, and she wondered if he was even aware of the changes within himself. He raised a dark brow at her, waiting for her to respond.

"Very well, but only if you do so gently."

"I shall endeavor to do so, but I make no promises."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I'll accept that. Oh, I nearly forgot! A letter came for you this morning. It appears to be from Minrathous."

"It can wait a few moments. Let us enjoy the quiet while we have it."

**~~~oOo~~~**

Eyeing Nathaniel, who was already grabbing his bow and quiver, Anya shrugged, unconcerned. She sheathed her daggers and strapped the leather belt around her waist before speaking.

"It's probably just one of Raoul's men," she reassured Nathaniel. "I can't imagine it would be the Grand Master of the Sword himself."

Flynne whistled. "That's quite a title. At least _I'm_ impressed. Uh…what's a Grand Master of the Sword? And what does it have to do with you?"

"The Grand Master of the Sword is the man in charge of Celene's private guard. He is responsible for the empress's security and, as such, undoubtedly has spies in every port city on the Waking Sea," she explained, taking the few steps to Nathaniel's side and laying a light hand on his arm. "My brother, Raoul Caron, is the current Grand Master of the Sword."

"You don't sound all that surprised that we've been tracked," Nathaniel uttered, slipping his hand under her elbow to help her up the steps.

"I'm not. Nor are you, judging by your expression. If it isn't one of Raoul's men then I suspect it will be someone from the _Chevalier Dirigeant's_ office. And before you ask, Flynne, the Dirigeant is the commander of chevaliers."

"Who happens to be her father," Nathaniel added in a grim voice.

Flynne whistled again, looking at Anya with raised brows. "You might have warned me that you were so well placed in the Orlesian aristocracy."

"I'm not. My family is."

"Blood is blood," Flynne argued, a view that seemed surprisingly naïve from a mage who had spent his life on the run.

She realized she knew nothing of his history, making a mental note to speak to him about it when they had the time. She had come to respect and trust the mage but had yet to sit and talk to him about his past life. And while that was an unspoken rule of the Wardens not to question someone about their past, it wasn't one she necessarily followed. She didn't hold a Warden's past against them, but she preferred to know what that past was. She had always felt that it helped her understand the people under her command, and it helped establish that bond of brotherhood that was so necessary among Wardens.

Anya glanced at Nathaniel, raising her brow, and he took a quiet breath before answering Flynne. "Family is as much an accident of birth as it is anything else. Being related by blood doesn't guarantee a happy family," he told Flynne quietly, his voice without inflection, but she felt his hand tighten its grip on her elbow momentarily as they stepped onto the sun-washed deck.

"Nowhere is that truer than with the many cousins of Celene. We've seen that blood weakens when it is diluted. Rousel is proof of – oh no – " she broke off, squinting into the bright sunlight. "If I'm not mistaken the man in the boat is Raimond de Luc. He's the _Chargé d'Chevalier – _the second in command of the chevalier. He's also a ruthless bastard," she added, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. With a sigh of frustration, she turned to the mage.

"Flynne, take Carver and stand guard over our prisoner. Do not release him unless Nathaniel or I tell you to," Anya instructed, her voice calm and even. "Do whatever is necessary to keep Rousel from being taken."

"Nathaniel, no matter what he says don't allow him to anger you. He is a master manipulator and he'll know exactly what to say to throw you off balance."

"You sound like you have a history," Nathaniel remarked, a hint of a question in his voice. He handed her his spyglass.

Smiling her thanks, she quickly trained the glass on the figure in question. "Not a happy one," she replied shortly, unwilling to rehash painful memories with the subject of them drawing near. "Not everyone finds me as charming as you do," she added, trying to lighten the tension that was continuing to grow as the boat drew close.

"I find that surprising, Commander Anya." He gave her a quick smile that bordered on a smirk and disappeared nearly as quickly as it had appeared.

"He was determined to keep me from joining the Grey Wardens, not because he cared about _me_, but because he knew my father wouldn't be happy if I became a Warden. Even after I joined he attempted to kidnap me in order to 'bring me to my senses', as he put it. Luckily my fellow Wardens at Jader had other ideas. In the end, Riordan personally tossed him out of the compound. Maker, I miss that man," she added around a sudden lump in her throat at the thought of her mentor.

"Raimond believes I'm a conceited, ungrateful child who doesn't deserve the family I have," she continued after she'd regained control of her voice. "He came to the chevaliers when he was twelve; raised by the former _Chargé d'Chevalier, _Marcel Broussard, when his own family died under mysterious circumstances. A more loyal, unprincipled man you'll never meet."

She stared at the boat and battled the nervous energy that made her want to adjust her uniform and ensure her braid was tidy. She fought her arms, holding them at her side even though they wanted to wrap around her almost as badly as her legs wanted to sit, rather than stand. She closed her mind against an onslaught of unwelcome memories.

"I can't guarantee I'll take it on the chin if he insults you," Nathaniel whispered, his eyes straight, his stance rigid. "In fact, I'll guarantee that I won't," he added.

"Please, Nathaniel, ignore it. If he sees you have a weakness, he will poke relentlessly at it," she pleaded softly, her eyes sliding to meet his. "He can't touch me; his words mean nothing. Don't give him that power." The words, spoken to soothe Nathaniel, helped restore Anya's calm.

As the ropes were lowered over the side of the ship Anya's heart fluttered restlessly in her chest. She waited, eyes narrowed against the garish splashes of sunlight that trailed along the deck in between the shadows from the sails. A light wind fluttered the banners atop the sails, and she could almost smell the heady floral scent of the gardens of Val Royeaux, though they were still more than an hour offshore.

A man, tall and powerfully built, easily climbed over the rail and planted his feet on the deck, hands at his side. He wore the glittering plate armor of his office, the dark purple enameled horse rampant embedded into the center of his silverite cuirass, indicating his rank within the chevaliers. His dark blonde hair was pulled into a tight warrior's tail, his hazel eyes were narrowed against the glaring sun and his mouth was turned down. His cheeks were gaunt, as if he had recently lost weight or been ill, yet there was no sign of weakness in either his pose or his manner.

"Raimond de Luc, errand boy to Enrique Caron," Anya sneered by way of greeting.

"As pleasant as ever, I see," the man replied, bowing stiffly at the waist, his smile mocking.

"I assume my father knows who our prisoner is and wants him. Tell him this is a Grey Warden matter, and not one for the chevaliers."

"Brave words from a coward and a cripple," the man shot back with contempt.

Nathaniel made a low sound in his throat and she felt the heat of anger rush into her, felt her face burning from it, but she held Raimond's gaze steadily. "I see you still haven't learned what true bravery is. But then you would have to step out of the shadows to understand the concept."

"_Enfant_ _irréfléchie,_" the man accused, his anger turning cold. "Your friends are not aware of your subterfuge and deceit or they would surely know that serving at your side is a death sentence."

Her back stiffened at his words and she felt another flare of anger. She was far from an unthinking or careless child, but the jab had hurt, nonetheless. "My friends are aware that I am a leader, and that I will do what is necessary to accomplish the tasks at hand. That includes protecting our newest recruit," she said, her voice devoid of the triumph she felt watching his face blanch. The lie had come easily to her lips, making it believable. It was a lie she would follow through with if necessary and that, too, lent power to it.

"You're bluffing," he accused, his eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't dare defy your father."

She laughed, a short barking sound, without any trace of humor. "You know that I have dared to defy my father on a number of occasions. Don't make the mistake of thinking now is any different. And do not make the mistake of assuming because I was injured that I am weak," she warned, her voice crisp and cool.

She was grateful for Nathaniel's quiet strength beside her, his need to defend her held barely in check, but held. She wanted to smile at him, to reassure him, but she refused to break eye contact with Raimond.

Once, years ago, she had been terrified of him. And even longer ago she had aspired to be like him. But that Anya, that _child,_ had died so long ago she barely remembered her. She saw Raimond as he truly was…a clever bully. Any power he had ever had over her had died the day he had tried to kidnap her.

"Since you are intent on being the messenger of the _Chevalier Dirigeant_, take this message to him. Tell him his daughter, the Warden Commander of the Grey of Ferelden and the Arlessa of Amaranthine, as well as her Wardens, seek his hospitality and his counsel. But advise him that the prisoner, Rousel Gagnon, will not be joining us. He is to rest in preparation of his Joining."

Color rushed into Raimond's cheeks, gaudy against the pallor of his skin. "Your insolence will not be tolerated," he growled. "Your prisoner is a citizen of Orlais and falls under the jurisdiction of the chevaliers" he added, his voice rising in anger.

"Tut, tut, Raimond de Luc. You are in danger of losing your temper. I warned my men of your cold and calculating manner, yet here you are shouting like a whore on the Rue de Rouge," Anya chastised, instilling amusement in her voice to further goad him.

His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his eyes boring into her; she was unflinching under the glare, but she was far from calm. She felt a deepening concern because his behavior was not at all what she had expected. He was erratic in his mood and his attempts to challenge her, to slice into her defenses had been weak and ineffectual. Either she had grown up or there was more to his visit than he was letting on. And then it occurred to her why his manner seemed so strangely at odds with his normal behavior. She had seen him act in such a way one other time.

"My father doesn't know you're here, does he?" she guessed, her voice breaking into the sudden silence. "You aren't speaking for him, you're speaking for yourself. Have you fallen so far out of favor with him that you must sneak around trying to get back into his good graces?" she mused aloud, her earlier fears and concerns fleeing at the realization. And on the heels of that thought was another, more sinister thought. "Or have you switched your allegiance?"

Rage darkened Raimond's eyes and he took a step forward. "You are the one who has changed sides. You threw _everything_ away to play at war and look at you," he growled furiously. "Twisted and hideous, a blight on the great Caron name," he mocked.

Only with great effort did she refrain from gutting him, her anger so deep it left her feeling queasy. Nathaniel moved forward, his posture seemingly relaxed, but she could feel the heat radiating from him. He was every bit as infuriated by the man's words as she was. He didn't say anything and to her relief, he didn't attack the chevalier, but she knew the effort it cost him. It cost her no less.

"Ah, a protector. Of course. You have always needed one," Raimond said in scathing tones as he looked at Nathaniel with a sneer curling his lips. "Did she tell you how she played the men under her father's command to get what she wanted? That she has no remorse or regret in using whatever means necessary to obtain her goals?"

"You have until the count of three to remove yourself from the ship before I assist you," Anya broke in, her voice deathly quiet.

She took a step forward and then another, until she was standing directly in front of Raimond, bracing on her good leg and pulling herself to her full height. "One."

"Do you really think you have the power to throw me off this ship?" he scoffed with a sneer.

She took another step, gauging the distance to the railing and knowing if she put her good hip into it, she could leverage him over the side. "Two."

She took another step, unsheathing her left dagger and smiling politely. His face paled again, his eyes shifting from the dagger to her face as he realized he had lost any tactical advantage he might have had. She resisted the urge to smile her triumph.

"You wouldn't dare attack a chevalier," he blustered, but the uncertainty in his voice was riding just beneath the surface of his bravado.

"Three," she said calmly. The moment his eyes moved to her dagger again she brought her right hand up to his ear and twisted sharply, eliciting a small cry from him. Next she used her good hip to brace against the railing as she slid her dagger under the silverite plates of his tasset. When he jerked away from the dagger, she twisted his ear again before dropping that hand, and he let out another low cry of pain, pulling away from her until he was bent over the railing, trying to escape both her dagger and her hand. It was easy, from there, to bring her hip around and pin him in place.

"Take the rope and climb down while you have the chance to retain even a tiny bit of your dignity," she said. "Otherwise, you'll go overboard wearing that armor. Trust me, it will cause you to sink like a stone."

"You will pay for this, _enfant_," he averred before pulling away from her to hoist himself over the rail and begin the descent down the rope ladder.

She found she was shaking when she turned to face Nathaniel and she wasn't able to give him more than a weak, tremulous smile. "Hopefully, he was merely trying to garner more notice from my father. I would hate to think he's working for someone else."

"Either way, you humiliated him in front of others. He won't take that quietly."

She shrugged. "He wouldn't dare hurt Enrique Caron's daughter, no matter how much he wants to."

"Unless he's working for someone else, as you suggested."

A shiver chased along her, reaction from the confrontation continuing to filter through her numbness. Nathaniel was right to be concerned. If Raimond de Luc was working for someone else, she had just made an implacable and dangerous enemy. But she found she couldn't be sorry for her words or actions.

"Let's go see to our prisoner. We should let him know he is safe. For the moment."

Nathaniel's relief was palpable. "I was afraid you were serious and that I'd have to call him 'brother'."

She chose her next words carefully. "Let's hope that doesn't become necessary."

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Come on, Blondie, before you turn into one of those mushrooms you're always gathering."

Anders glanced at the dwarf. "Did _she_ send you to check on the crazy mage?" he asked, shaking his head. "Tell Margaret that I'm just fine."

"Fine? Listen, mage, you look like shit and you've been locked away in this rat hole for over a week. You want her to know you're fine, you go tell her," Varric shot back.

Anders blinked in surprise. A week? Had it really been that long? He'd been so busy after the explosion and so intent on avoiding Anya or Nathaniel, that he'd lost track of the time. "I can't. I have a – a patient I need to check on," he lied quickly.

Varric glanced around the empty clinic. "Where? Hiding under your bed?" Varric teased with an uneasy laugh.

It was the unease that stabbed at Anders. The one person who never seemed to judge him was doing just that, and it hurt to know that Varric was no longer comfortable around him. He pinched the bridge of his nose to stop the swell of emotions the thought dredged up.

"No, no. I mean that I need to go to the patient's home and check on him."

"Come on, Blondie, don't lie to a professional liar."

"I have my reasons for staying in," Anders said stubbornly, unable to control the edge of defensive nervousness in his tone.

"Well, whatever they are, you need to forget about them for awhile and come out. Hawke's having us all over for dinner tonight. She wants you there and I promised I'd deliver you."

"I can't, Varric."

"Why not?"

Anders gave a tired grunt of laughter. "Tenacious as ever, I see. But the truth is…" he trailed off as his conscience wrestled with his need to protect Fallon.

"Blondie, don't even think of lying to me again."

Shoulders slumping, Anders pondered the ramifications involved if he told Varric about the young boy he'd taken in. Someone else needed to know about the boy in case something happened to Anders, and Varric was much better at keeping secrets than he pretended. He'd always confided in the dwarf before. He hesitated, glancing at the closed door to his quarters before pointing to it.

"See for yourself," he mumbled, sitting down again.

Varric frowned at him, his eyes darting from the closed door to Anders and back several times. "Do I really want to know?" he asked, walking over to the door and stopping. Taking a deep breath, the dwarf whipped the door open, stepping across the threshold and out of sight.

Anders gripped his hands together tightly as he waited, still not sure he'd done the right thing. But maybe, with Varric on his side, he'd find the courage to introduce Fallon to the others. It would do the boy good to know that others cared about him too.

"Okay, I can take a joke as well as the next, but I don't get the punch line for this one, Blondie," the dwarf muttered, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

Anders's heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?" he asked around a dry mouth.

"I mean, what's an empty room got to do with you refusing to leave the clinic?"

"Empty?" Anders asked hoarsely, confused by the dwarf's words. He jumped out of his chair and hurried to his living quarters.

They were, as Varric had said, empty. Fallon had been curled up in the only comfortable chair in the room, reading his primer while Anders had seen to the last of the patients. Now the chair was empty and the primer was where it normally was, in the small bookshelf in the corner of the room. "I – he – Fallon! Come out this instant. Varric won't hurt you, he's a friend!" Anders commanded, striving to put more reassurance than fear into his voice and missing badly.

He waited a minute and when nothing but silence followed his command, he went to the small bedroom and then the even smaller bathroom and found nothing. He opened the armoire, expecting Fallon to jump out at him, laughing at the joke he'd played, but the wardrobe was empty of everything except clothes. Fallon's new clothes were hung neatly beside Anders's robes.

"He won't have gone far, his clothes are still here," Anders said around a flood of relief, his hand reaching out to touch the clothes. What had he been wearing that day? Why couldn't he remember?

Varric, coming to stand beside him, looked at the clothes and then at Anders. The pity in his eyes made Anders's heart thud in his chest. "Too small for you, that's for sure. Whoever this Fallon guy is, he's on the short side," Varric remarked and then stared at the clothes again, frowning. "Are you shitting me, Anders? This is a pretty elaborate joke, even for you."

Anders frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"What, you didn't think I'd recognize Lirene's marks?" the dwarf asked, pointing to the unobtrusive dot of bright paint on the collar of Fallon's linen shirt and the waistband of his woolen trousers.

It was not unusual for shopkeepers to mark their merchandise in some way, to prevent theft and to help identify stolen merchandise. But he was been sure he'd removed the paint spots once he'd brought the items home and they would have washed away even if he'd forgotten. Something felt wrong – off – and he couldn't figure out what.

"I – I don't understand," he muttered, stumbling away from the closet. "Fallon just went out and forgot to tell me. He's shy, that's all."

But the evidence said otherwise and he felt his stomach lurch at the implication. Was he dreaming? There was a surreal quality to the scene; he felt disconnected, as if he was dreaming, and too warm. It was too warm in the room and he felt the trickle of sweat down his back. Yes, he must be dreaming. He'd wake up and share the dream with Fallon and they'd both have a good laugh about it.

His eyes closed again, his lids heavy. Maker, he was so tired; he felt unable to move, his muscles unresponsive in their exhaustion. He collapsed in the chair and closed his eyes. So bloody worn out.

He was barely aware of Varric when the dwarf covered him up with a blanket. "You catch some sleep, _Anders_ and I'll be by to check on you later."

Later. Yes. After he'd slept. He gave a groggy nod and closed his eyes against the lurking unease in Varric's gaze. He felt boneless and weightless as his head lolled against the back of the chair and sleep overtook him.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"You aren't seriously considering inducting Gagnon into the Grey Wardens," Nathaniel said, unhappily surprised by her comment.

She shrugged. "Not unless I have no other choice, but I won't willingly give him over to anyone else until I'm sure we've extracted every last bit of information from him."

There were times when she still startled him with her hard-edged pragmatism. "And if he's killed in the process?"

"Then he dies. His chances of surviving the trip from the docks to the Grey Warden compound are slim anyway. And if he refuses to tell us what he knows then there isn't much point in keeping him around as anything more than a decoy to lure out those hunting us."

Nathaniel stopped and stared at her retreating figure as she limped along the narrow corridor of the ship. "You're very callous about his value." He hadn't intended to sound accusatory but they were both aware that his tone was critical.

She stopped and turned back to him, her smile sad. "I'm not callous, believe me, Nathaniel, but I can't afford to be too emotional, or too kindly disposed towards the nobles we'll meet. You don't understand that the vultures will see us as little more than carrion, and at the least provocation they will swoop in and devour us. I know it sounds melodramatic, but that is the way the court is, that's the way nobles are. They fight and murder and scramble over the bodies of their victims to reach the upper echelons of power, and they don't care if it is family or not they climb over. To them it is all a game to see who comes out on top. They lost their humanity so long ago I doubt they even remember they once cared about others. Don't make the mistake of underestimating their depraved indifference."

She took a deep breath and smiled sadly. "If we get out of Val Royeaux without coming to blows with each other it will be a miracle. But know that beneath all this ruthless calculation is the Anya you know and love. I'll do whatever it takes for us to survive this trip, and that includes conscripting Rousel Gagnon."

Nathaniel had been in Orlais several times, but never Val Royeaux and most certainly never in the Imperial Court. He had considered his father to be everything that nobility wasn't supposed to be, but now he felt himself wondering if his father was the norm and not the exception when it came to the behavior of the nobles. The thought sat heavily in him.

He looked at Anya again, saw that she was struggling to maintain her cold indifference. Nodding, he brought his hand up and grazed her cheek with his fingertips. "I'll follow your lead, Commander Anya," he vowed.

"I'll start packing if you want to watch us come into port. The view of the Grand Cathedral is stunning from the docks, especially at sunset. The cathedral's pink granite is remarkable on a sunny day, picking up a golden peach color."

"Anya, you don't have to do this by yourself," he said quietly, watching as her chin jutted stubbornly. "I know how treacherous family members can be, and I also know how redemptive they can be," he reminded her.

Her shoulders bowed slightly. "I'm not sure I can withstand the onslaught of both my brother and my father if they demand Rousel's return," she admitted in a rush. "If I conscript him…" she trailed off, her eyes drifting away from his.

"Then you'll have firmer ground to stand on," he finished for her.

She nodded, misery coming into her expression briefly before he saw her will it away.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, but if it does, we'll support you, Anya, you know that. Not," he added seriously, "because I'll ever trust that bastard, Rousel, but because I trust _you_."

Two hours later, they entered the harbor of Val Royeaux. Nathaniel watched the city come into view and couldn't help but acknowledge the grace and beauty of its marble and granite buildings and monuments rising in an impressive array along wide boulevards, bedecked in flowers. Even the dock managed to maintain a beauty in its long, low buildings and gaily painted stalls. From a distance he thought he could hear the Choir of the Divine's voices raised in song.

Anya, dressed in her ceremonial Grey Warden armor and tabard, stood beside him, her eyes not taking in the sights, but scanning the people gathering along the wharf. He took her hand and squeezed it once before letting go again. She flashed a smile, bright and brief, before returning her gaze to the wharf.

He'd also changed into his Grey Warden leathers and tabard, as had Flynne and Carver. They made an imposing sight, standing at attention, each of them armed and watchful. Neither men spoke, as if a tacit signal for silence had been given and perhaps, he thought as he took in Anya's proud stance, it had been.

The ship slipped effortlessly into its berth and the great sails were lowered and furled. The first mate, a bristly young man from Rivain, nodded to them. "Your equipment and baggage will be unloaded before nightfall. Your prisoner should be removed at your earliest convenience, Arlessa Anya," he said formally. "We will be loaded and ready to sail by tomorrow's evening tide."

Nathaniel nodded briefly to Flynne and Carver. "Get the prisoner and bring him up. Remember to fasten the hood of his cloak tightly, but not before you gag him."

The two men nodded and went down to get the prisoner. Nathaniel, removing his spyglass, handed it to Anya. "Do you recognize anyone in the crowd?" he asked, retaining his professionalism even though he wanted to comfort her in some way. Her face was pale and grim, her hair neatly braided, the white patch of hair stark against the dark red.

He knew, instinctively, that their time in Orlais would be a test of their strength, their commitment and their love. Some part of him knew that he would fight to the death to protect her, even if it was from her own family, because she was _his_ family. She had fought to keep him alive, fought to help him restore his family's honor, and fought for him still, whenever his pride overcame his common sense. She had reminded him that he was a man of honor even if his father had forgotten what honor meant.

"My brother, along with a small contingent of his men, but they are in plain clothes, not uniform, which means it's not an official visit. He's here to provide escort and legitimacy to our visit."

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Then let's not keep him waiting."

She nodded and turned away, taking a few steps and then stopping. She looked at him, a smile curving along her lips and a light in her eyes. His heart skipped a few beats and he returned her smile. "No matter what else happens, remember that you are my family now; that it is by your side I want to be," she whispered.

His smile came unbidden and his determination to request her hand in marriage grew even stronger.

Hopefully, her family would accept that.


	38. Behind the Masks

**A/N:**_ Thank you, Lisa, for your very helpful beta and for making sense of the gibberish! :)_  
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**Behind the Masks**

Grand and glorious, the city of Val Royeaux was home to the Chantry, the Templar Order and the most powerful monarch in Thedas. Beyond the docks and wharves, the city was revealed in all her grandeur. For Anya, returning reminded her of all she had given up when she'd joined the Grey Wardens, a choice that she had never regretted. She stared at the sprawling city before her, knowing that for all its beauty it was also corrupt and gradually decaying from within. As much as Celene tried to introduce social programs, the myriad nobles who jockeyed for power and wealth dismantled those programs almost before they were introduced. Sometimes Anya felt the only significant change that would ever occur in Orlais would be when the poor revolted against the nobles.

Often compared to a beautifully-gowned woman, the city was gleaming golden white in the waning sun. The Imperial Palace, with its translucent white marble walls, stood at one end of a wide, flower-bedecked boulevard, the buildings gracefully curving around the Imperial Gardens.

At the other end was the towering glory of the Grand Cathedral, its thick pink granite walls flecked with gold and deep blue. Built of granite unique to the Gamordan Peaks, the pink was as light as a maiden's blush, turned radiant by the setting sun. The columns, rising above the Grand Cathedral, were capped in gold leaf, each bearing witness to the life of Andraste; tall golden statuary graced the square in tribute to the Bride of the Maker.

Between the Grand Cathedral and the Imperial Palace was the White Spire, rising to embrace the bright blue sky, a pure white marble, continuously lit by the use of magic as homage to the Maker and referred to as the Sword of the Maker. It was visible from anywhere within the city and was a reminder of the importance of the Templar Order in protecting the citizens of Thedas, although Anya referred to it as the White Irony.

The White Spire, home to the Orlesian Circle of Magi, housed the phylacteries of every First Enchanter in Thedas, as well as all the mages within the Spire. It was, as far as Anya was concerned, a repressive prison for the mages, a place where the order ruled with an iron fist yet felt no compunction in using the very magic they touted as a danger to man. In her mind, it summed up everything wrong with the current state of politics in Orlais, not to mention the little she'd seen of Kirkwall where the templars had an even tighter hold.

With great care Anya made her way down the gangplank, painfully aware of her limp, as well as the eyes of her brother and his men watching her slow progress. Nathaniel followed her and she was thankful that he didn't attempt to help her, grateful that he knew her well enough not to. Carver and Flynne had the prisoner positioned between them, cloaked and gagged, hands bound. She'd given all three men permission to stop him by any means necessary should he attempt to escape, ensuring that Rousel heard her orders and their acknowledgement.

As she neared her brother, she saw the classic signs of anger in his stance, in his eyes. She felt a tickle of alarm, the old familiar twist of childhood arguments turning her stomach, but she continued across the worn planks of the pier until she stood before him. A thin smile stretched his lips upwards but it failed to reach his eyes before it was gone.

In a quiet voice, he greeted her. "I hear you have an old friend with you, Warden Commander Caron."

She felt her heart sink. He was more than angry; he was furious and his voice reflected the cold formality of his station. "You have been misinformed. I have only a new Grey Warden recruit with me."

"_Poppet_, you know I can't allow you to parade Rousel through the streets of Val Royeaux," Raoul tutted with just enough condescension in his voice to make Anya's temper rise.

He was deliberately goading her and she vowed not to succumb to the anger that rippled through her blood. If she gave him that power in front of both her men and his, she would not be able to reclaim the moral high ground later. She silently cursed her brother's attempt to undermine her, refusing to allow it.

Leaning in close to him, she fought to keep her voice and expression neutral. "He is a Grey Warden conscript and, as such, will be taken to the compound like any other conscript. Now," she continued, lowering her voice and allowing a hint of anger to show through, "unless you want your childhood pet name known to all of Val Royeaux before sunset, you will do well to refrain from using mine while in the company of subordinates."

Their eyes locked and she refused to breathe or blink. She was no longer the child he seemed to consider her and it was time he understood that. Finally, after several painfully slow moments, he nodded briefly. A hint of sheepishness graced his handsome face, giving Anya a flash of childish triumph. He clicked his heels and bowed formally. "Warden Commander, as an agent of Her Imperial Highness, Empress Celene the First, I welcome you to Val Royeaux and offer you my sword arm."

Relief allowed her to breathe again and she returned his bow. "I accept the honor bestowed upon me, _Commandant de l'Epée_ Caron."

"So, tell me what Rousel has done that merits conscription. Has he suddenly grown a backbone? A brain? Never tell me he has developed a heart?"

Despite herself, she chuckled, though she quickly swallowed it in an effort to maintain even a hint of dignity. "No, none of those. But he was found spying on me and has learned several Warden secrets. I had the option of killing him or conscripting him and you know we Wardens never waste a potential asset."

The lie, so close to the truth, flowed from her with surprising ease, but a pang of guilt pierced her conscience. In all their time growing up, she had trusted him, worshipped him and envied him. And now she was lying to him. She remembered their meeting a few months earlier in Jader and wondered if that was when she first began to wonder about his loyalty to the family. He had suggested that Celene was using Anya's position in the Wardens to bolster the defenses of Orlais and that he was a part of that plan. Would he really sell out his family for political gain? No, she told herself resolutely. Raoul was a Caron first and foremost, she reminded herself forcefully. It wasn't her immediate family she distrusted; it was everyone else in Val Royeaux.

"A moment, Commander?" he asked, stepping away from the circle created by his men and hers. She nodded, motioning for her men to stay where they were, and limped after her brother.

"You are using him for bait," Raoul said flatly as soon as they were alone.

"I am. I will use whatever means necessary to accomplish my missions, Raoul. You taught me that, you and Father. Don't even pretend to be somehow surprised by who I have become."

Pain rested briefly in his expression and he glanced away for a minute. "No, I'm not. I am sad, Poppet, not surprised. And I apologize for my high-handedness earlier. You didn't deserve that. I was angry that you hadn't given us warning of your visit."

Shrugging, she gave him a half-smile. "You'll retract that apology when you hear about my confrontation with Raimond de Luc."

The change in his demeanor was instant, his mouth twisting from a smile into a grimace. "If you didn't kill him, then it I can only hope you maimed him."

Unease grew in her and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. "What do you mean? Has he fallen out of favor with Father?"

"Fallen out of favor? He _jumped_ out of favor of his own accord. He left the chevaliers to become Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons's steward."

Unease grew like a wild vine to curl around her lungs and squeeze, making it impossible to breathe. She saw her brother's concern chase across his face but only because she knew him. Anyone else would not notice a change in his expression. Finally, she managed to speak around the dread. "He was wearing his chevalier uniform. I had no idea he was no longer in father's service. Why did Father not insist he turn over all badges and honors of the office?" she asked, baffled by the strange turn of events.

"He did, Poppet. You know Father well enough to know he would never allow a chevalier to resign without first returning the uniform. Obviously he had someone make him another."

Anya thought of the dagger she had packed in her trunk, the only evidence of the attack in the fog months earlier. "Whoever made that also made a dagger with the Imperial mark on it. Obviously there is a traitor even closer than you imagined."

Raoul barely masked his shock. "We must get off the streets and out of the open, Pop – Anya. I know you want to use Rousel to lure whoever hired him out of hiding, but there will be more men than even your Wardens can manage. If you will allow me, I have three carriages waiting, and masks and cloaks for each of my men, as well as yours. Do you trust me?"

He was right, of course. She hadn't anticipated just how deep the schisms were among the nobles. While she might have attracted the attentions of whoever Rousel was working for, she would also have left herself and her men vulnerable. She nodded briskly and heard the exhalation of relief from her brother. "Thank you. I will not disappoint that trust."

Watching the men don helmets with masks for faceplates, as well as identical blue cloaks, it soon became nearly impossible to tell who was who. She could sense her men by their taint, but otherwise they were indistinguishable from Raoul's guards and Rousel. The men were given orders not to speak or in any way give their identity away, even to each other.

Raoul handed her into a carriage with three others and followed her in. With a shouted order to the driver, the carriage lurched forward along the paved streets. "Each coach will take a different route to the Palais de Dirigeant."

She knew that the man directly across from her was a Warden and she was fairly certain it was Carver, based on his build, but couldn't be positive of anything more than the presence of the taint in the man. The other masked men could have been anyone, although she strongly suspected that Rousel was not one of the passengers in her carriage. Raoul was too clever to do anything so obvious. She glanced at her brother. "Let's hope this works."

"Have faith, Anya."

They rode in silence after that, the carriage winding along the streets of Val Royeaux, through the park dedicated to Kordillus Drakon the First, with all its marble statuary of the first emperor of Orlais in various heroic poses, then along the dank, dark alleys that skirted the broad boulevards. The streets were filled with noise; street vendors called to customers, men and women exchanged greetings, horses whickered and neighed, and above it all, the soothing sweetness of the Choir of the Divine, raising its voice in the Chant of Light. It was home, and yet Anya felt as if she was a stranger.

Nearly an hour after leaving the docks, the carriage pulled up before the ornate wrought iron gates of the Palais de Dirigeant, her former home. "Have the other carriages arrived?"

"Only one, Commandant Caron."

"Blood and thunder! Both carriages should have arrived within minutes of each other," Raoul cursed.

Anya recognized the anger that masked his fear. Her own fear mounted. Had the missing carriage been attacked or merely delayed by the throngs of people still out on the streets of Val Royeaux? And where were her men?

"We need to go in search of them," she said quietly.

"Agreed, but first we speak with Father. He'll want to know that you are safe."

Anya bit back her arguments, giving only a curt nod before stepping out of the carriage and looking up at the imposing palace she had grown up in. She hadn't taken two steps before a carriage came clattering around the corner. Horses reared as they were pulled to a stop and a man leaned out.

"We've got wounded! Send for the healers!" the driver yelled.

"Flynne!"

Anya turned at the sound of Carver's voice, watching as his helmet hit the ground. His voice was filled with anguish and she saw that emotion haunting his eyes as he sprinted in the direction of the carriage. Her thoughts were jumbled and confused, much like the scene unfolding in the courtyard in front of her. She hurried toward the carriage, Raoul and the others quickly passing her.

The gates slammed shut, reverberating metallic sounds shrill in the air. Men came streaming out of the barracks, many in their uniforms, weapons drawn. Her father appeared on the steps of the palace, his eyes searching the crowd and then locking on hers, his expression mirroring his shock at seeing her disability for the first time. As quickly as the shock registered, it disappeared behind his usual mask of command, but not so quick that Anya hadn't seen it.

"Where is the prisoner?" Raoul shouted.

"We've got him!" yelled a soldier from the second carriage.

"Take him below, to the dungeons. Put him in the care of Devlin and tell Devlin I will hold him personally accountable for the prisoner's safety," Enrique ordered brusquely.

Turning away from her father, afraid she would show her hurt at his reaction, and her fear for her men, she continued to the coach, all too aware of the odd hopping skip she performed in her haste, her frustration and fear giving way to one persistent and chilling question.

Where was Nathaniel?

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Are you sure?" Margaret asked, already striding from the room in search of her medical kit.

Varric, breathing heavily as he tried to keep up, complained, "Slow down, Hawke. Blondie's out for the count; he isn't going anywhere."

Despite Varric's reassurances, once she had her kit, she hurried along the dark passageways between her wine cellar and Anders's clinic. She was thankful that Fenris had already departed, the letter from Minrathous in hand, before Varric's arrival. He would have insisted on accompanying her and that would have led to an argument that she'd prefer to avoid.

Entering the clinic, she was surprised to find it empty. A thin layer of dust covered the examination tables and the long countertops where she usually sat to make potions and poultices.

"In his room," Varric said in anticipation of her question.

"Varric, are you positive that there isn't someone named Fallon staying with him?" she asked again.

"Hawke, this is me you're talking to. If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't have said anything," Varric retorted, a trace of hurt in his voice, but he gave her a roguish grin. "My boys watch this place day and night. The only one who's living here is Blondie. Although…" he trailed off, frowning.

"What?" Margaret prompted, pausing at the door to Anders's living quarters.

"Frander and Mawcin said they heard Blondie talking to himself several times in the past few weeks. I figured it was just him talking to that _thing_ of his."

Fear blossomed in her chest, making it feel tight and drying her mouth, making her next words difficult. "Let's hope he's just suffering from exhaustion. A lack of sleep can cause hallucinations," she said, embarrassed by the tremor and defensive tone in her voice. The notion sounded far-fetched even to her.

"Yeah, because it couldn't possibly have anything to do with carrying around extra passengers," Varric scoffed, but he gave her a brief, sympathetic grin.

Fingers trembling, she opened the door and stepped into his bedroom. He was curled up on his side in a protective posture as he slept. Margaret knelt beside the cot and stared at her friend. He was pale and drawn, even more than normal, his skin translucent, as if he was a marble effigy of himself.

"Anders," she whispered, mentally preparing a warding spell if necessary. She reached out a hand and rested it on his clammy brow. Her heart ached to see him looking so fragile. "Anders, it's Margaret."

An eye opened and she could see the struggle within him to focus. For the beat of a heart, she saw fury and madness and then he blinked and opened his eyes wide and he was Anders again. "Annie?" he asked plaintively and closed his eyes again as if he couldn't bear to see the truth.

"It's all right, Anders, I'll take care of you," Margaret promised, wondering if he was beyond her care. She had to try. And trust in Fenris to understand the healer in her needed to do everything within her power to help Anders, even if it meant ripping off the mask he hid behind and exposing the madness within.

She shivered, wondering if she wasn't a bit mad herself to even contemplate assisting him. Varric laid a hand on her shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze before he stepped back.

"Looks like shit, doesn't he?"

She nodded. "Can you send out for some food? He doesn't appear to have been eating well."

"Or sleeping. Ancestors' tits, Hawke, those circles under his eyes have circles," the dwarf muttered on his way out of the room.

Reaching out with her magic, she tried to find any sign of illness or injury. She had learned from her father that tumors in the brain could cause all manner of hallucinations and she held out hope that was the cause of his symptoms. Her spell wavered and dissipated, as if it had hit a wall of some kind. Frowning, she tried again, increasing her focus.

She felt resistance to her spell but pushed on, gathering her willpower around her. She willed her spell, wisps of dark blue magic that sought to find any abnormality, into Anders as she closed her eyes, visualizing the path her spell was taking as it probed him, remembering the anatomy and physiology lessons just as her father had taught her. Everything seemed – she jerked, stumbling backwards as if a powerful force had shoved her. Her magic hovered, twisting as she fought to regain her focus but the spell was already blinking out of existence.

"Hawke?" Varric asked, re-entering the room.

"I can't seem to break through whatever traps Justice or Vengeance have placed in Anders's head. My spells are useless," she explained in a low voice laced with frustration.

"That can't be good."

"I need you to gather some items for me, Varric. And I'll need Merrill, too."

"What about Broody? He'll kill me if I don't let him know."

Sitting down at the desk, she uncapped the inkwell and dipped a quill in it, before beginning to make her list.

"You worry about these items and Merrill. I'll worry about Fenris."

"What? You're going to leave Blondie alone? You think that's wise?"

"He'll be restrained by wards and I'll put him into a deep sleep. I'd rather not be left alone with him," she explained quietly when Varric quirked his brow at her.

"Ah, makes sense."

"But just in case, can some of your men keep an eye on the place?"

"Already on it, Hawke."

Moments later she hurried down the dark passageway to her home, placing wards along the way and feeling guilty with each one she cast. For the first time since she'd met Anders, she was genuinely afraid of him. He should not have been able to resist her spells, which told her that the entity that lived within him was responsible, that Vengeance was in control. She had failed to help her friend and now she was concerned not only for his safety but for her own. There had been something in his eyes the only time he had opened them that had been malevolent and unreachable. Even after it had faded away, the air still felt _wrong_. She had to find a way to reach Anders and help him regain control before he was lost to Vengeance.

She felt the bitterness of tears gathering and she blinked her eyes, refusing to give in to them.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Nathaniel removed his helmet and bent over the man who was slumped against him. Blood dripped steadily from underneath the man's mask and Nathaniel worked the fastenings until he was able to ease the helmet off the man. Flynne was already casting a spell, whispering in a language unfamiliar to him.

They'd been waylaid by a dozen men, who apparently hadn't expected a mage in the enemy ranks. Nathaniel's bow had been useless but he'd drawn his daggers and protected Flynne as the mage cast his spells. The fight had been brutal but brief and they had left ten men behind them. Nathaniel had tried to keep at least one alive, but the men who'd attacked had obviously been given orders to succeed or die trying.

After seeing to the wounded, he pulled two dead bodies into the coach and then ordered one of the men to climb into the coachbox and get the carriage moving again. They were too vulnerable as they were and the sooner they reached the compound the better.

One of Raoul's men gave a brisk nod and climbed over the bodies. A moment later the coach jerked forward and gathered speed. Worry gnawed at him as he thought of Anya. Had she also been attacked? And why hadn't anyone come to their aid? He pushed the heavy curtain aside and looked out of the window, realizing they were in a dark alleyway, completely isolated from the crowded sidewalks. Their attackers had known exactly where to strike.

Once inside the vast grounds of the palace, Nathaniel assisted the wounded and then let his eyes sweep the crowd in search of Anya. He moved towards her, his steps quickening as she hurried along the uneven cobblestones. He wanted to pull her into his arms and satisfy himself that she hadn't been injured but waited for her to make a gesture, unwilling to embarrass her in front of her family. She stopped in front of him, her eyelashes awash in unshed tears that shimmered like diamonds in the lowering sun.

"Thank the Maker," she whispered, leaning against him. He allowed himself to inhale deeply, his fingers caressing her cheek briefly.

"An interesting way to greet foreigners," he remarked.

"You should feel flattered. We usually save that type of welcome for high ranking nobles," a man said, coming to stand behind Anya.

He couldn't be anyone but Anya's father. The deep russet hair, the penetrating blue stare, the aristocratic nose and full lips all proclaimed his heritage. She stepped back and smiled up at Nathaniel.

"Nathaniel, this is my father, Enrique Caron, Dirigeant of the Chevaliers of Orlais. Father, this is the man who saved my life and won my heart, Nathaniel Howe."

Aware of the appraising stare directed at him, Nathaniel said quietly, "It's an honor to meet you, Dirigeant Caron."

"And you, Warden Nathaniel. We will speak later. For now we need to get inside and debrief."

By the time the debriefing was over it was late. He could see Anya's weariness in how much more pronounced her limp became, as if she was too tired to struggle with her hip. He was tempted to carry her up to her room and help her into a warm bath when the door to the large office they were in opened and platters of food were brought in by servants, led by a tall blonde woman with piercing grey eyes. She was dressed in an elegant silk gown and greeted them all cordially, her voice cooling when she greeted Anya.

"Anya, did I not tell you this would happen if you insisted on doing a man's work?" the woman admonished. Nathaniel's gut tightened and he found himself leaning forward, outraged at the tone and tenor of the woman.

"Yes, Mama, you did and as I told you then: I would rather die from a wound sustained in battle than from boredom as a dutiful wife," Anya replied with a matching coolness.

The air in the room became charged with tension. Both women seemed locked in silent battle and none of the men present, most especially not the Caron men, seemed inclined to break up the moment by commenting. Long moments dragged out and he could hear shuffling, guessing it was probably Carver who had claimed his mother was a histrionic woman given to blaming others for her own unhappiness. It was an opinion reinforced by a talk he'd had with Varric during their recent visit in Kirkwall. Apparently Anya's mother blamed her for something and he felt pride in how well Anya was managing mixing with a primitive need to protect her from any more stress.

"So, is that roast venison I smell, Mother?"

"Of course, Raoul. How are Sherise and my _grandchildren_?" The dig was obvious and Nathaniel saw the color drain from Anya's cheeks.

"But where are my manners. I am Giselle Caron. Are you Anya's friends?"

Another slap and Nathaniel's anger ratcheted up but it was Enrique who spoke with quiet authority, his voice tinged with resignation. "This is not the time, Giselle. Let us eat and show these brave souls to their rooms."

Choosing the seat beside Anya, Nathaniel sat close enough for his leg to brush hers, letting her know as unobtrusively as he could that he supported her and loved her. She gave him a brief, wry smile before turning her attention to her heaping plate.

An hour later, they were shown their rooms and he was relieved to see he was next door to Anya's room, having had a fear of being in a completely different wing, which he suspected her mother would have preferred. Several moments after being shown his room, he left it, in search of Carver and Flynne.

He wasn't surprised when Raoul Caron accosted him in the dark hallway. He'd been expecting it ever since they had first met, when Raoul had made obvious his deep affection for his sister, and his fierce need to protect her. That should have formed the basis for friendship between the two men, but Raoul appeared to view him with wariness and suspicion.

"Were you there when she was attacked?" the man asked without preamble.

"No, I found her after," Nathaniel replied, trying to keep the residual notes of guilt out of his voice.

"But you know who did it, yes?"

"I do," Nathaniel agreed, feeling the old familiar tug of anger clench in his belly.

"This person is dead, then?"

Nathaniel shook his head, once. He would not explain the situation to the man if Anya had chosen not to. Raoul's eyes, so like hers, narrowed and a look of contempt curled the man's lips into a sneer.

"You know who did this to her and yet you haven't killed him? You can't possibly love her as you proclaim if that is the truth."

Nathaniel's hand shot out and closed around Raoul's neck, pinning the man to the wall as his fingers tightened their hold. Rage coursed through him, icy and unyielding, sudden and intense. "Accuse me of anything else you want, but not that," he replied, his voice cold and precise.

Something in the man's face shifted and Nathaniel saw approval in Raoul's eyes. As quickly as the rage had arrived, it dissipated. He loosened his grip on Raoul and watched as the man grasped his neck and coughed.

"So you are not as aloof as you first appear," Raoul managed with an approving smile. He slapped Nathaniel on the back. "Take care of her or you'll deal with me. And," he added, reaching out to jab Nathaniel in the chest with his finger, "know that I will always be watching, that I have resources you could only hope to have."

"Understood. But you won't need to watch me; keep an eye on her. If something happens to her it will be because I'm already gone."

Blue eyes studied him with the same intensity that Anya studied her new recruits and Nathaniel found himself liking the man, despite his arrogance. He smiled, shaking his head. "_Poppet_? I'm surprised she didn't eviscerate you for that."

"There's still time and she has a long memory."

"Yes, I've learned that the hard way. She also packs a mean punch and is more stubborn than anyone I've ever known."

"That is the Caron blood in her. We're all stubborn. Some would say dangerously so, but there have been Carons at the right hand of the Imperial Court going back to Kordillus Drakon. And we will always fight for what we believe in. Obviously she believes in you."

"Enough to marry me, I hope."

"Ah, so that's why you have asked my father for an audience. Let me give you some friendly advice. Don't grab him by the throat when he questions your integrity."

Nathaniel grinned sheepishly. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

"If you're looking for Anya, she went down the hall to pay a visit to Carver."

She was just leaving Carver's room when he rounded the corner and her smile grew as she spied him.

"Nathaniel, just who I was coming to see," she greeted with a wink.

"Oh?"

"Yes, I want to discuss the tapestry in your room," she said, linking her arm with his.

"You want to discuss a tapestry this late at night?"

"It's a special tapestry. I just demonstrated its uses to Carver, although he seemed very distracted."

She was intoxicating, the vanilla and verbena from her soap tantalizing his senses, washing away his fatigue. The thought of just laying in bed, holding each other, her scent filling him, was more than a little appealing after the day they'd had.

"Indeed. By all means, let me hear more about this tapestry."

A tapestry of a country scene, complete with a manor and ornate gardens, hung on his wall. He'd barely noticed it earlier, but she limped to it and flashed him a suggestive smile. "When you want to visit, simply push the tapestry aside and use this mechanism to open a panel into my room. I would suggest you knock first, lest you find me with one of the very handsome swains my mother will attempt to force on me while we're here," she teased, adding, "I'm sorry for that."

"As long as you tell the swains to go to the Void, you have nothing to apologize for," he reassured, pulling her into his arms, his lips seeking hers.

She met him half way, her hands coming to rest on his hips as she leaned up, her lips clinging to his.

A moment later, she leaned back, an eyebrow raised. "You don't seem all that tired now. Why is that?"

Dawn was teasing the night sky by the time she rose from his bed to slip behind the tapestry to her own room.

**A/N:** _Those who read Peaches and Cream will know all about the tapestries!_


	39. The Strings of the Puppet

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for your very helpful and timely suggestions on this chapter. I'd be lost without you! Seriously. _

**The Strings of a Puppet**

Sunlight was filtering through the thin curtains in Anders's living quarters. The clinic doors were shut and bolted. Anders was in a mage-induced sleep, his breathing low and even. Their preparations complete, Margaret knew they were as ready as they could be. She stared at the vial of pale green liquid she was about to drink, and then at Merrill. "Are you sure you want to try this?"

The Dalish elf smiled nervously and shook her head before nodding once, showing her own nervousness. "It should work, but if it doesn't, I rely on you to follow my last wishes to the letter_. All_ of them," she added with surprising authority, underscored by a hint of humor.

"I will, Merrill, but don't think like that. You are so much stronger than you're given credit for."

"Yes, I am, I'm only surprised to hear you admit it," Merrill replied with quiet dignity. "If I was truly as foolish as you all think, I would have succumbed to what you call demons a long time ago. And no," the elf continued, raising her hands in surrender, "I don't want another philosophical discussion on spirits versus demons."

Margaret blinked, stung by the honest assessment and wondering who else she had underestimated since she had managed to misjudge Merrill so badly. Fenris cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable and disbelieving. She shot him a warning glance and he gave her a scowl before turning his face away.

He thought she had lost her mind to want to help Anders, even more so to ask for Merrill's assistance with her blood magic. As far as Fenris was concerned Anders was so far beyond help he needed to be put down. Maybe he was right, but as a healer she couldn't bring herself to write him off without trying everything at her disposal, including blood magic. Not that she was using blood magic, but Merrill would be and she would be using that as a conduit to 'ride' the spell, as the book explained.

The fight that their opposing views had sparked had lasted for more than an hour with neither of them willing to concede their point. It was to Fenris's credit that he'd finally sighed and confessed that he was terrified of losing her, of having the Magisters take one more thing from him. She'd promised not to let anything happen to her, that she would be safe because she wouldn't be in the Fade. He'd consented, but unhappily so.

With another nod, she put a hand on Anders's forehead and whispered a sleep spell. "Be careful, Merrill," she instructed and downed the liquid from the vial, shuddering as the taste burned until it hit her stomach, causing it to lurch.

Both ladies sat down in chairs they'd placed beside Anders's bed. Merrill reached into her kit and pulled out a small, sharp knife, then quickly drew it across her palm. Dropping the knife, she picked up Margaret's hand and gave a nod.

"Ready?"

With an abrupt, nervous nod, Margaret closed her eyes and began the archaic incantation that she had found in an old book of spells. Not blood magic, although Fenris saw little difference between Merrill's blood magic and Margaret's trailing along in its wake. Magisters had perfected the technique as a way to show off their powers of mind control to their friends and she had learned about it purely by chance while searching old bookstalls in Lowtown for a book for Fenris.

A disorienting miasma permeated her thoughts as she clung to Merrill's hand. Merrill seemed to be striding confidently down long corridors, pulling Margaret with her, but the corridors were deserted and the only sound was a low keening, a mournful sound that heightened Margaret's disquiet.

"Anders! Yoo-hoo!" Merrill called out in a friendly, cheerful voice, making Margaret flinch at both tone and volume. "I've brought Margaret with me," she added.

"You aren't supposed to be here."

The voice was young and petulant and definitely not Anders. Margaret could feel her nerves twitching as the hair on her arms rose. "Who is that?" she whispered.

"Maybe it's that child Varric mentioned? He doesn't sound too happy about us being here, which is a good sign."

A shiver gave chase along her spine to coil around the nerves in her stomach. Her palms were damp, and she gripped Merrill's hand more tightly, causing Merrill to wince.

"Are you Anders's little friend?" Merrill asked in the same friendly tone.

"Go away. Anders is sleeping."

"There's someone else here, too. A spirit. Justice?" Merrill asked and a shimmering white light came into view, moving along the corridor, gaining shape and form as it neared them.

"It is unwise of you to travel here. I cannot guarantee your safety."

"Justice? Is that who you are? Please, we want to know what's happened and to help, if we can," Margaret implored softly, her voice shaking with nerves.

"Come with me," the spirit replied and they followed it down another snaking corridor. The figure came to a halt and wavered and shimmered, a pale white apparition, limned in gold, ethereal and beautiful. The spirit's expression was sorrowful. "His mind is fractured; I am unable to reach him. I sought to help but I fear I have caused irreparable damage. It would be merciful to end his life."

"And that would end yours as well?" Merrill asked, her voice calm and thoughtful.

"I will cease to exist, yes."

"Is there no way for you to return to your domain in the Fade?" Margaret queried, feeling unaccountably sorry for the spirit that stood before her.

"There is not. If there was any way to do so I would not avail myself of it. I have been contaminated by the emotions I was exposed to. I have felt love and envy, hate and grief. To return to my realm would only taint those already inhabiting that realm. It would seem my former commander was correct. No good came from such a fusion of spirit and man."

"You mean Anya warned you against merging and you did it anyway?"

"She did. But Anders and I agreed that we knew better than Commander Anya. I was impatient; I had already experienced the weakened emotions of the body I inhabited and I was compelled to experience more deeply defined emo – " his voice trailed off and he cocked his head, listening to something in the distance that Margaret couldn't hear.

"That decision was irrevocable and wrong. I urge you to leave now, and end his madness."

Margaret felt torn as she stood there, clinging to Merrill's hand and weighing the spirit's words carefully. "If you are remorseful, perhaps Anders is too and we can still find a way to separate you."

"That is not possible. Anders's mind may heal, given time, but we are inextricably bound and that will cause instability in him, no matter how much you insist on intervening. Heal him now, but he may yet again worsen in time, do you understand?"

Shoulders slumping, Margaret felt Merrill's grip tighten in reassurance, and she found herself pushing aside the profound sadness that was overcoming her to speak again. "Fallon is the little boy that Anders thought was real. Who is he? Is he the key to healing Anders's mind?"

"Fallon is the personification of Anders's childhood. He _is_ Anders."

Recoiling in shock, as if she'd been punched in the gut, Margaret found herself speechless as her mind reeled from the implication.

"I've heard of something similar, Hawke. The Dalish would call Fallon a splinter in the mind's eye."

"He was a puppet. And then for a time it was Anders who was the puppet. Now Fallon is trying to protect himself. He is aware of what he is and knows that Anders has power over him, that his time is inexorably drawing to a close and that nothing he can do will prevent that. He will fight, and it was such a battle that caused Anders to fall into this malaise-induced sleep."

"So if we are able to get Fallon to leave, will Anders's mind begin to heal?" Margaret inquired hopefully.

A sigh, as soft as a summer breeze, emanated from the spirit. It was a sigh of regret, in Margaret's mind, a whispered acknowledgement of remorse. "For the time being, yes, but it is a temporary state."

"We'll figure something out, Justice," Margaret avowed with more conviction than she felt.

It was Merrill who asked in a voice that quivered slightly, "Where is Vengeance?"

"I assume he is with Anders," the spirit said briskly and began to waver and fade as they stood there. "If you insist on this course of action, remove Fallon and y –"

He was gone, leaving Margaret and Merrill standing alone in the dark corridor. Margaret was shaking from both his abrupt departure and a fear that went straight to her blood and chilled it.

"So, Fallon it is," Merrill said with little enthusiasm. "He isn't here, Hawke. We need to go back the way we came."

"I don't even know what to make of all this," Margaret said as they turned and began retracing their steps.

They came to a branch in the corridor and Merrill paused, tapping her chin in contemplation. "Something is fighting me, Hawke. I think it's Fallon and I think it's this way," she said quietly and Margaret gripped her hand tightly again, pulling at her to slow down.

"How are we supposed to send this splinter away?" Margaret asked.

"Scare it, cajole it, lie to it, promise it anything, it doesn't matter."

"All the things you aren't supposed to do to a demon or spirit?"

"This isn't a spirit or a demon, Hawke. It's a piece of Anders's fragmented mind. Think of it like a splinter in a hand…do whatever is necessary to remove it to stop the hand from becoming infected."

Only marginally reassured, Margaret allowed herself to be pulled along again, trusting that Merrill knew what she was doing, a state she had never thought possible and she felt a wave of shame flood through her. "This isn't the Fade, so how will it work?"

Merrill stopped and sighed, her normally sweet smile looking grim at the edges and her expression impatient. "Hawke, I've explained this several times. My blood magic allows me into a person's mind, which is where we are. Your spell allowed you to take the journey with me as long as we stay in physical contact. If you're afraid, let go of my hand and you'll wake up."

"I want to be sure we aren't going to make the problem worse."

"Anders is sick. Fallon is the cause of the illness. Get rid of the cause and Anders will be cured. At least," the elf finished, looking sheepish, "I think that's right."

There wasn't anything else they could do for Anders. Two days of trying had proven that. This was their last hope and Margaret couldn't bring herself to deny that hope. She nodded, grateful beyond measure for Merrill's surprising strength and courage.

"Onward," she said, offering the elf a gritty half-smile.

They found the young boy down a dark and twisted corridor and Margaret's breath caught at how young and vulnerable he appeared to be. He shook his head. "I knew you'd come. Your type always thinks they can help but what's magic ever done for me? Eh? Speak up, nosy old hag!"

The venom and spite startled Margaret, causing her to involuntarily take a step back. Merrill's grip tightened and she welcomed the painful pressure. "You can't stop being a mage, Fallon. It doesn't work that way," she said, trying to keep her voice kind and even. She took a deep, steadying breath.

"Da always said you could. Bastard tried to beat it out of me. Said he'd make sure I wouldn't use magic again," the boy said bitterly, his voice old beyond his apparent years. Margaret's fear was overcome by pity. "Guess I showed him, in the end, eh?"

"Your father was wrong, do you understand, Fallon? Horribly wrong," she said, striving to keep her voice even and calm, but feeling a sense of helplessness and anger at what Anders had endured as a child.

"I'm not leaving and if you try and make me, you'll be sorry."

How could she reach someone who'd been tortured for being a mage? She looked at Merrill, whose eyes were welling with tears of sympathy. She held her ground, searching for something to say.

"I killed him, ya know. Didn't even need to use magic. Won't need it to kill you neither."

Panic was in the shadows, waiting to control her and Margaret took another deep breath, and then another as her heart slammed into her chest. "I'm sorry for you, Fallon. No child – no person should have to experience that kind of pain. But your time here is done now, do you understand? Now is the time for _Anders_ and you can rest easy, knowing he survived because of your strength."

"No!" Fallon shouted, fury darkening his face. "He's weak. That Justice spirit makes him weak. I'm not going anywhere 'til I know he can take care of hisself."

"You don't have to do that, Fallon. I'll look after Anders. You have my word on it."

"You? That's a laugh. You're weaker than old Justice ever was. All good and proper," he snorted contemptuously.

Margaret winced at the vindictiveness in his tone but held out her hand and forced herself to smile, to relax the taut muscles in her neck and shoulders. "Maybe I am weak, and maybe I'm good and proper, but I'm also real, Fallon, while you're just a figment of his imagination, an echo of his past. I can help him in ways you can't. You know that, it's why you're fighting me so hard. If you really want him to become stronger, go away and stop reminding him of his past."

The pain was instant and intense. Margaret let go of Merrill's hand to grip her head, trying to stifle the pain that shot with white hot intensity through her brain. A low, long scream was torn from her and then her eyes snapped open to find herself staring into Fenris's concerned green eyes as he cradled her in his arms. He had moved with her to a chair across the small room, as if distance would somehow help.

She clung to him as the pain and confusion abated and heard Merrill whisper a healing spell. She looked around to find Merrill sitting in her chair, a wobbly smile on her lips as she healed her palm.

"Is Fallon gone? Or did he kick us out?"

"I think we managed, but I guess time will give us the answer," Merrill replied, shrugging.

"Hawke? What – what's going on?" a hoarse voice asked. She turned to see Anders struggling to sit up, a look of confusion on his face.

Moving to him, she bent and gently pressed him back against his pillows, her hands firm on his shoulders. "Anders, you've been…you've been ill. Do you remember anything?"

Anders blinked again, his eyes moving from her to Merrill, to Fenris and back again. "Wow, that sounds ominous. I – uh – I remember you heading out to the Wounded Coast looking for Saemus? I think. Why? What did I miss?"

He was surprisingly, frighteningly cheerful, even though he was weak and pale, his skin drawn too tightly across bones and sinew, stretched and thin. Margaret felt Fenris's grip tighten on her as her eyes darted to Merrill, who was shaking her head slowly. "I'll just get us some tea – or maybe you're hung – but you probably shouldn't – is there any fresh fruit in the – you know I'll just go round to the market, shall I?" Merrill blathered, her words tumbling over each other in their haste.

They all watched as Merrill hastily left and then Margaret turned her gaze to Anders, seating herself once more in the chair beside his bed. "I don't quite know how to tell you this, Anders," she began hesitantly, her voice gaining strength as she proceeded to explain the events of the past two weeks, carefully avoiding mention of Fallon, focusing instead on the brief, bloody battle with the Arishok and the after effects. She also didn't mention Anya's visit.

Her disquiet grew as she talked, an eerie feeling that he already knew about the events on some level coming to rest in her thoughts and refusing to leave. It was a look in his eyes, a certain slyness in his expression that made the hair on her nape stand up and her heart pound uncomfortably in her chest.

A thought crept in, one that whispered to her that she should have listened to Justice when he'd demanded she end Anders's life.

It was not a thought she wanted to have.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Pastel pinks still adorned much of the room Anya had grown up in. With white lace and gold leaf accents, it was a room made for a fairy princess but it had never felt like her room so much as a room for the daughter Giselle had always wanted. Anya was not that daughter.

Standing at the window, looking down at her father address his chevaliers, Anya felt as if she had been transported back to her childhood. How many times had she listened to his morning address, watching as he inspected the knights in their gleaming armor, lined up in their perfect rows as they awaited the order to disband and go about their daily patrols? She leaned her forehead against the cool pane of glass, watching her past catch up to her present.

As he had always done when she was a child, Enrique Caron dismissed his men, turned on his heel and marched towards the palace, glancing up at the window where she stood, nodding imperceptibly in acknowledgement. She raised her hand briefly and then turned away from the window, smiling. If everything else changed, at least the rituals of her youth would not. It was a comforting thought.

She refused to forego her armor even though she knew it would upset her mother. Or perhaps some part of her wanted to upset her mother, as childish as that thought was to admit. Their relationship, tainted by bitter words spoken in anger and never properly addressed, had grown even more strained since she'd left home. No matter what she accomplished in her life she would not ever be able to give her mother the two things she most wanted from her: grandchildren and a position in the court of Celene.

Now, with her twisted hip and the resultant limp, her mother's pursuit of perfection in herself and those around her was a failure. Anya should be feeling something more than ambivalence over that fact, but, after years of being made to feel she was a huge disappointment, she found she didn't care enough for it to do more than sting a bit. She finished plaiting her hair, her mind moving beyond her mother to the weightier issues of both Rousel and Raimond de Luc.

Rousel had been detained in the more comfortable cells directly underneath the palace, a place reserved for the nobles who faced incarceration for those rare times when their schemes were thwarted by other nobles during a round of the Grand Game. Her father had doubled the guard, using only his most trusted men but after Raimond de Luc's defection it was impossible for Anya to trust any chevalier except her father.

Thoughts of her encounter with the former chevalier inevitably led to thoughts of who might be behind the acts of counterfeiting. The blade's mark was not a badly made imitation of the royal mark, but a near-perfect replication. And, while she hadn't given it a detailed examination, the armor Raimond had worn bore all the hallmarks of his office.

Someone with the Imperial Smiths was aiding the criminals, but investigating each of them would take time as there were a dozen artisans involved in the arms and armor of the Imperial Court, and a dozen more common laborers. Could her father and brother trust whoever they sent to look into the matter? Regardless, her mind would not be put at ease until she investigated the situation.

And what did Raimond hope to accomplish from his attempt at gaining her trust? Why had he so publicly renounced her father and repudiated the organization many felt he had committed murder in order to join? More to the point, what did his new puppet master hope to learn from her?

A knock on the door stirred her from her reverie and she set the hairbrush aside before rising and making her way to the door. "My lady, it is Clare," a soft voice called.

Shocked and delighted to hear her former maid's voice, Anya opened the door, smiling, and ushered the woman into her room. Carefully taking the tray, she set it aside in favor of hugging the diminutive older woman, whose dark hair was streaked with grey but who still had the look of youth about her in both her smile and dark eyes.

"_Tante_ Clare," Anya greeted affectionately.

"Tut, tut, Poppet, you are not to call me that now that you are grown," the older woman said, turning away but not before Anya spied the pleased smile. The woman who had been her surrogate mother, who had heard all of Anya's hopes and dreams, fears and heartbreak, stood before her as if nothing had changed in the years Anya had been gone.

"Let me look at you, little one."

Anya stood up straight and clasped her hands in front of her as the woman slowly circled her. It was surprising how nervous she still became when those whose opinions she cared about saw her for the first time since the incident. She found she was holding an indrawn breath.

"Raoul had the right of it when he spoke of your injuries. Can you tell me what happened, _mon petit chou_?"

"I am not permitted to say, but it – " she began.

"Anya, you left your – " Nathaniel stated, entering the room through the tapestry just as she started speaking.

"Nathaniel, come meet - " she began anew, only to be interrupted by Clare.

"Who are you?" Clare Delfensi asked quietly, her voice commanding enough that Anya fell silent.

Nathaniel, wearing the thin cotton padding he wore under his leather armor, stopped and immediately started backing up towards the tapestry and escape. "I beg your pardon, Anya, my lady," he apologized over the silence that fell as the women gathered their thoughts.

"No need, Nathaniel. I want you to meet the woman who raised me," Anya said, proudly. She reached out her hand in invitation and Nathaniel, looking only slightly embarrassed at being introduced while wearing very little, wrapped a hand around hers and offered a brief smile as he was introduced.

"Clare Delfensi, this is Nathaniel Howe. He is the man who holds my heart with the utmost care."

Anya smiled as Clare walked slowly around Nathaniel, appraising him with her dark eyes. "You love my little cabbage?" the woman asked bluntly, causing Anya's smile to dip into an embarrassed grimace.

"Please, Clare," she began but it was too late. From the smug look adorning Nathaniel's face, he had already heard and filed away the information. With a sigh, she turned to Nathaniel and added, "As your commander, I order you not to repeat that nickname. Or any other you might become privy to while we are here."

"Yes, Commander," he replied crisply, but she saw the humor resting in his grey eyes.

"And, as the woman you claim to love, I implore you not to remember them," she added.

"Clever move, Sister. We call that a two pronged attack," Raoul said, entering the room without knocking.

Anya threw her hands in the air. "When did privacy go out of fashion?" she teased.

Raoul's smile faded. "The moment you crossed into Orlais," he answered seriously. "Now, tell me what your agenda is and I'll see to it that you have an escort."

Rather than argue, she said curtly, "I am going to interrogate Rousel again, after which I am going to request an audience with Celene. I also need to arrange a meeting with Her Holiness, Justinia the Fifth. If these meetings prove fruitful, I will then go in search of Raimond de Luc."

"After that little stunt of his I doubt you'll find him. Grand Duke de Chalons won't have been pleased with such an overt act and will want to distance himself from it. It was very foolish and clumsy of Raimond, really. The whole affair is odd. He worshiped Father. What made him defect?"

"A question I have been pondering," Anya admitted.

"Well, don't expect Father to offer any information on the subject. He refuses to speak of it at all, at least to me. You were always able to stay in his good graces, Poppet. I never understood how you managed that."

Anya winced when she heard Nathaniel's quiet snicker. "I warned you, _poulet potelé _."

"Children, there will be none of that. In fairness, Anya, your brother has not been chubby for many, many years."

Laughter warmed the room and Anya turned to Nathaniel, still chuckling. "He was as round as he was tall when he was younger, with a face full of freckles and always clucking over me, and thus the nickname _poulet potelé , _or chubby chicken, was born."

"I appeal to your sense of honor, Annie," her brother pleaded with a grin. "And also ask that you call on Sherise. She is so near to her confinement that she is unable to travel even so short a distance."

Anya felt a brief sting of envy, gone almost before it formed, at mention of her sister-in-law's imminent lying-in. "Of course, I will try to stop in today, if for no other reason than to see my nieces and nephews." she said, her smile reasserting itself.

"Leon is convinced you will arrive on a griffon, but Alaire disabused him of that foolishness. He is all business, that one. Of course Helaine and Annette and both planning a teaparty for their Aunt Anya, complete with new chapeaux for the occasion. Mind you, they are made of papier-mâché and bits of things they found in a sewing kit. Yours is quite fetching."

A knock interrupted Anya's reply and a blushing Carver peered around the half-opened door, his entry reminding her that she was in Val Royeaux on business. Flynne also poked his head in, a grin resting easily on his lips, and she sensed rather than saw Nathaniel slip behind the tapestry. Moments later, dressed in his Grey Warden armor, he returned by way of her door to escort her to breakfast. The others fell into step behind them.

The morning meal, complete with the traditional pot of hot chocolate and flaky croissants, was a boisterous affair as both her Warden family and her birth family became acquainted. Her mother was quiet and aloof, her eyes taking everything in and her expression cool and assessing, although she was cordial enough when spoken to. Anya glanced at her father under cover of her eyelashes. He was smiling at something Raoul and Nathaniel were discussing and he looked over at her, giving her a quick wink before returning his attention to the others.

Her parents' marriage had been, like many other noble marriages, arranged at birth. They had been no more than casual acquaintances when they'd married and, even after thirty-five years, they were still little more than that. The thought was depressing and she found herself searching for Nathaniel's hand, her own curling around it. He turned his palm up and clasped her hand, his eyes never leaving her father's face as he explained the complexities of the Imperial Court.

After breakfast, Anya composed a brief message to her cousin, asking for a formal meeting, adding that her fellow Grey Wardens would be accompanying her. Raoul offered to deliver it himself.

"I need to return to the palace and check on Sherise. And I've no wish to see that bas –"

"Raoul," her father said reprovingly as he came into the study. "You can afford to be magnanimous as an heir to both fortune and title. He has neither."

"Speaking of Rousel, it is time he and I had another chat," Anya stated crisply.

"I'll accompany you," her father intoned with just enough formality that she glanced at him. His face was impassive, carefully neutral, and for the briefest moment, she felt unease scrape at her nerves.

They went down to the dungeon underneath the palace and her father turned right, to the well-appointed cells reserved for political prisoners awaiting pardons from Empress Celene. "Rousel's fortunes seem to have risen," Anya remarked quietly, trying to keep the curiosity and censure from her voice and failing.

"A thing does not need confirmation to be true."

Her heart stuttered. Was he finally admitting that Rousel was his illegitimate son? If so, why not publicly acknowledge it? Half the aristocracy was comprised of illegitimate children. Was it to save her mother's reputation? She kept her eyes focused on the narrow hall they traversed but her unease grew from a frisson to a flare that twisted in her gut.

He stopped before a carved oak door and inserted a slender key in a lock. "Before I leave you to discuss your business with him, Poppet, I ask that you overlook his bravado and understand the burden he has been forced to carry his entire life. It will put many of his actions into the proper perspective."

"Papa, I am fighting for my life here, and the lives of my adopted country. Rousel was ready to capture me, to turn me over to Maker only knows who. I must know who he works for so that I can pursue him. Do you understand what is at stake here?"

"I am well aware of the stakes, Anya. And if your only goal is to know who it is that sent him to follow you, I can tell you that. He is an agent of the Brotherhood of the Wolf, and, as such, works for me."

Anya felt the room, her father, her entire world, recede and darken. It was as if everything she had grown up believing had just been called into question. She found she couldn't breathe, as if a hand was squeezing the air from her lungs.

"Come, Poppet, I will explain everything," he promised, his expression shuttered, but his voice conciliatory.

"Not without my Wardens," she heard herself say, only dimly aware of her words, her voice icy.

"No, this I can't permit."

"Then we have nothing more to say to each other."

Anya turned and slowly began to walk away, as conscious of her limp as she had ever been, forcing her shoulders to straighten and refusing to look behind her.

"Anya, do not do this. Listen to what I have to say before you run away."

There was anger in his voice, and something else that gave her pause. Desperation. She stopped and turned to him, masking her emotions behind the facade of a commander, a trick she had learned from him. The child who had adored her father wanted to cry out at the unfairness of life, to demand he ride his charger to her rescue, but the adult clung to her anger and refused to acknowledge the sorrow she saw lurking in his eyes. When she spoke, her voice was sheathed in ice.

"Then send someone for Nathaniel, who was the victim of Soie Noire, the preferred poison of the Wolf Brotherhood. We were in Denerim at the time, an odd place for the Wolves to be, and so I thought at the time. But who else could it have been? In fact, Father, I can think of no other group who can afford to use it. I believe Nathaniel has a right to know his lover's father was responsible for nearly killing him. Don't you agree?"

Her heart felt as if it was weighted with stones, heavy in her chest as she stared at the stranger her father had become.


	40. The Line Between Truth and Lies

**The Line Between Truth and Lies**

"Do not be in such a hurry to condemn what you don't yet understand, Poppet."

Anger slowly trickled in, overwhelming the numbness of discovering what a monster her father had become. When she spoke, the cold, hard edge of her emotions had been warmed by the rage and it set her tongue ablaze. "Don't you dare! Don't even begin to think that you will sneak through my defenses by calling me that," she sneered, keeping her distance and wrapping her fury around her like a cloak.

"That's not my intention. My intention is to remind you that we are family and that what I've done, I've done for the good of the family."

Her laugh was short and bitter. "Oh? What an extraordinary claim, _Papa_. You told me, long ago, that it was your job to protect Orlais from all enemies who would seek to destroy it, no matter the consequences. You were explaining the difference between Raoul's mission and your own. His was to protect the empress from all enemies but you had the greater honor, for you served all of Orlais. Now I see those were just lies and excuses to behave with ruthless disregard." She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the underlying urge to go to him and have him comfort her, to have him defend what seemed indefensible.

Instead, she continued on, dogged in her need to express her hurt and outrage. "How can you even look at yourself? How can you believe what you are doing is for the good of the nation?" she scoffed, staring at her father, who seemed older and smaller somehow, as if he was fading into obscurity as she watched.

"What happened to Enrique Caron, the man who would change it all? Who swore that all Orlesians had the right to be educated, that even the lowliest deserved to have _all_ the same rights as the noblest born? Do you even remember that man?" she asked, but continued on, without giving him time to answer.

"We are trained from the moment we can talk to play the Grand Game. Bards are hired, marriages arranged, alliances forged and broken and forged anew. We are duped by those who profess to love us, manipulated by those whom we finally learn to trust, and destroyed for no other reason than sport as others wager on the outcome of everything from duels to political allegiance.

"To many of the other nations Orlais is some magnificent, shining vision of chivalry and noble deeds, a place to be envied and feared, a glorious example. But an example of what? Just how low a nation can fall? Let them see us for what we really are, Papa! Let them see that underneath we are as black as pitch, as devious and cunning as the demons of the Fade, and without even the honor of mercenaries. Any greatness we once had has been devoured by the need to play the Grand Game no matter the cost.

"Don't you see, Papa? Don't you see that the game is a sickness? It invades every aspect of Orlesian life, eating away at the underpinnings of Orlesian culture. It is responsible for the decay of morality, the decline of society and it is the reason Orlais will fall one day, subsumed by its own evilness and machinations."

Her voice shook, catching deep in her throat where her hurt was trapped by unshed tears. "You had honor once, Papa. You were above the pettiness of the nobles, above these vile and wretched games and now look at you. A shadow of who you were, reduced to puppetry and pageantry and using your own children for political gain.

"And look at me! _Look_ at me, Papa! So bent and twisted, but I didn't break. Do you understand? I didn't give in to the darkness, even though it would have been easier to do so. _You_ taught me not to and yet you didn't heed your own lesson.

"Maker, I'm glad I left Orlais! Do you hear me, Papa? I am _glad_ that I drank the poison of the darkspawn because I would rather have their taint in my blood than the corruption that runs so deeply within the heart of a _true_ Orlesian noble!"

She turned then, sickened by her words, and the emotions driving them, and wishing with her whole heart that she could walk straight and tall, without the curve in her hip or the limp, but she did not allow her shoulders to relax until she had reached her room. There, she let the tears flow and she sank onto her bed, covering her face with her hands as if she could block out the terrible pain.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anders dozed, only vaguely aware of the small army of people keeping an eye on him, paid for by Varric, no doubt. When he woke, his dreams receded like wisps of smoke blown by an unseen wind. He felt weightless and muzzy-headed, content to drift. The dull ache that had been near-constant for weeks had departed and it felt almost wrong to be without it, as if he'd passed into a new stage of an illness. He winced at the way his mind was twisting away from him but he was too tired to fight it so he dozed off again.

Later, in the realm between dreams and wakefulness, he allowed himself a moment's hope that Vengeance had been chased away. He knew better, he knew it was foolish, even beyond foolish, to hope that the two women could have somehow cleansed him. He flung an arm over his face, covering his eyes, trying to block out the light.

"You awake, Blondie?" Varric whispered at one point. Anders refused to answer, reaching instead into the Fade, willing himself to sleep and dream. A part of him regretted the deception but until he'd had time to decipher the women's visit inside his head and what it might mean, he wasn't in the mood to chat with anyone, least of all someone as astute as Varric.

"Bah! Let me know if he wakes up. Send a runner to the Hanged Man," Varric muttered and Anders heard a door shut and the brief rustle of someone moving to sit down. He rolled onto his side, facing away from the room, and those within it.

Some part of him would miss Fallon, even knowing who he really was. He would miss those moments when he had felt needed and loved. A longing swept through him, memories of his time at Vigil's Keep so close to the surface that he ached for those days when he had been loved and accepted. Maker, why had he been such an arrogant bastard? Would he ever understand his motivations for accepting Justice into himself? It was too late for regrets, for self-pity and self-recriminations. What was done couldn't be undone and he could either blame Justice for the disaster his life had become or he could focus on what he knew he was supposed to do and hope that Anya would understand and forgive him one day.

He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep, his thoughts remaining tightly held within himself.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Nathaniel, surprised by Anya's long absence, went in search of her. A servant, in answer to his query, thought he had seen 'young miss' entering her room earlier. Nathaniel climbed the stairs two at a time, a small frown sitting between his brows.

He heard her sobs just as he raised his hand to knock at her door. He could tell that she was trying to stifle them. His hand fell to the door handle but when he tried to open the door he discovered it was locked. "Anya?" he called out. The sobs became further muffled but she didn't speak.

Cursing and driven by instinct, he entered his room, pulled back the tapestry and fumbled with the mechanism before the panel slid open. In two long steps he was there and he gathered her into his arms, smoothing her hair from her face, cupping her chin to study her.

In between sobs, she explained who the leader of the Brotherhood of the Wolves was, her voice rough and raw, wounded in a way he hadn't heard since Anders had nearly killed her.

They had known there was a possibility that someone in her family had been involved, and though he pointed out in a calm and reasonable voice that the poison that had nearly killed him had not been meant for him, she refused to hear him, waving her hands inconsolably as the tears began to dry on her cheeks, her angry torrent of words washing over them both.

And in those moments when trite expressions fell from his lips, he remembered his own father's betrayal with painful clarity. His voice trailed off mid-platitude. There was nothing he could say to ease her pain. All he could do was stand beside her and assist her in any way he could. Outwardly calm, he knew exactly what he needed to do, but inside, removed from his supportive words, his own rage began to smolder.

When both her tears and words finally dried up, he spoke again, not meaningless expressions of sympathy, but a truth that she needed to hear. "We can't let this sidetrack us, Anya. We need to see the Divine and you need to speak with the empress. The sooner we do that, the sooner we can leave."

She rested her cheek against his and her skin was feverishly hot, but the shuddering sighs had stopped and she appeared calmer. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

A knock at her door roused her and she struggled to her feet. Straightening her clothing, she limped to the door and swung it open to come face to face with Enrique Caron, his expression mirroring Anya's own look of gritty determination. Nathaniel moved to her side quickly, his arm wrapping around her shoulders almost with a will of its own.

"Please, Anya, we must talk," the older man implored.

Nathaniel, still reeling from the news, was hard pressed not to reach across the space and throttle the man responsible for breaking Anya's heart. He, better than most, knew the devastating consequences of a father's betrayal and the black rage that he thought he'd learned to control roared back into life.

"Leave us," he commanded coldly, unconcerned that he had no authority to give orders to anyone, least of all the commander of the chevaliers in his own home. "Now," he added, his voice a silken promise of action should his command be ignored.

"It is best if you both hear the truth now, rather than allowing this anger and hurt to fester," Enrique Caron began but Nathaniel, removing his arm from around Anya's shoulders, stepped forward, his rage barely contained.

"Now is the time for you to leave until Anya determines she is ready to talk about it. Get. Out."

Nathaniel felt Anya's hand on his arm and he covered it with his own, turning to look at her. She was as pale as a newly risen moon, her eyes too large in her face and he recognized the signs of shock in her dilated pupils and trembling hand.

"Commander?" he asked, fighting to maintain his professionalism in the face of her heartbreak. He wouldn't humiliate her if he could avoid it, but he would not let her father dictate how the events were to play out when she clearly needed time to recover from the shock.

"Please inform the men that we will be leaving within the hour. I believe the Grey Wardens can better accommodate us, after all," she said in a strained voice.

"As you wish, Commander," he replied, reluctant to leave her side even for a minute, but even more reluctant to cause her a moment's concern. She withdrew her hand from his arm and he opened the door, waving his hand at the Chevalier Dirigeant. "After you," he added and it was less a polite invitation than a cold demand.

Hesitating, the man looked first at his daughter and then at Nathaniel before nodding once. A fleeting look of impatience skimmed across the Dirigeant's features before they took on a smooth, haughty appearance, and when he spoke, Nathaniel almost pitied him.

"Do not act rashly, Anya. You know I would never willingly do anything that would harm you," he said, but without passion or conviction, as if he realized it was too late for the words to hold any real value.

Looking both hurt and stubborn, Anya replied in a soft, sad voice. "You are wrong, Father. I know nothing of the sort."

Nathaniel found he was shaking as he stepped into the hallway, his fury barely held in check. The obvious heartbreak in her final words rolled like thunder in his head, and the man responsible seemed unable to grasp that fact. His muscles flexed and tightened, his hands forming into fists.

"Please, Warden, I know you care for her. Help her to understand that incident was never directed at her, or you. To carry such hate in one's heart, as she must now, does one no good. It makes one susceptible to the whispered whims of others."

With his own father's betrayal like a rusty blade in his gut, Nathaniel dismissed the man's words as a desperate plea to get Nathaniel's sympathy. It wouldn't work. He shook his head. "Do you know who my father was? What he did?" he asked, his voice silken. "Have you any idea why your words will never be enough for her?"

A look of defeat flashed in the other man's eyes - eyes the color and shape of Anya's.

"How does a person who betrays his own family manage to sleep at night?" he prodded, unable to stop himself from knowingly twisting the knife in a man who had already lost the most precious thing in his life.

Tight lines formed around Enrique's mouth and when he spoke, his voice was flat. "I know who you are, Howe. I have known for some time and if I thought you were anything at all like your father that poison would have been for you."

"Then you know that I love your daughter and will do anything to protect her. _Anything_."

The chevalier nodded once and a look of relief entered his eyes. "Yes, I believe you would. Good. Yes, that's very, very good.

"Now, believe me when I say I would never hurt my daughter. She may not understand as yet, but she will some day. I ask you, for her safety, do not allow her to leave here. I can protect her for as long as she remains but the moment she steps out on her own, I can't. Do you understand? I am not the one she should fear."

"Then who is?"

"The ones she has always feared. Nothing has changed. Her cousin Etienne, the Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons."

"And your former Second?"

The older man's expression became guarded and he shrugged. "I cannot say with any certainty."

"Can't or won't? Not that it matters. Anya already suspects him of being a double agent, sent by you to infiltrate Chalons. Time will tell," Nathaniel replied coldly.

"Then you see why it is necessary for her to stay here, where she can be protected."

"Anya is quite capable of defending herself and doing so without all the subterfuge. And if you knew her at all, you'd know _that,_" he shot back, his anger not assuaged by the older man's words or obvious love for his daughter.

"If that was true, she wouldn't be in the condition she's in, would she? Now, put aside your own prejudices and you'll see that I'm correct. I can protect her; keep her safe while she is here. She must stay."

With that, the man turned on his heel and departed. Nathaniel stood for long moments, contemplating the man's words. As loath as he was to admit it, there was merit in Enrique's words. At least within the walls of the palace they knew their enemy. He rubbed the back of his neck, his hands still trembling with the need to hit something.

Hesitating, he finally turned back to Anya's door and tapped lightly. She wouldn't be happy with the suggestion to stay where they were and he couldn't bring himself to tell her it was her father's idea, not while the hurt was still so sharp.

She sighed after he explained why they should stay and nodded once, quickly. "But Maker help him if he gets in my way," she added darkly.

"He's not stupid, he'll find reasons to stay away, but Anya…" he trailed off and brought his lips down to hers, the kiss light and unhurried.

"But Anya…" she prompted when the kiss ended, though her voice had lost its hard edge.

"Don't do what I did. Don't let the hurt and bitterness fester."

She wouldn't meet his eyes, her gaze focused on an unseen point above his right shoulder and long moments stretched out. He finally cupped her chin, turning her head slightly until her eyes caught and held his. "I will do whatever I can to help you, my love, but you need to work through the anger."

"Just as you have done?" she asked quietly, without rancor.

"No, that's exactly my point. Don't do what I did. Look at me, Anya. I still wear the scars because I didn't work through it. I couldn't talk it through with him and I wouldn't allow myself to even acknowledge the pain. It still has power over me," he confessed, closing his eyes against the sudden sorrow in her gaze.

"I will try, Nathaniel, but right now I just…I want to hit something until it's broken."

"I know exactly how you feel. I assume there is a practice yard here?"

Moments later, gear in hand, they made their way through a series of tunnels and then up a flight of stone steps to an outdoor practice yard, complete with training dummies, wooden blade-guards and practice weapons.

"Prepare yourself," she warned, grabbing a pair of practice daggers. Nathaniel followed suit.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Margaret's sleep was restless, plagued by visions from her trip into a broken mind. Fenris held her and remained silent, as if knowing her thoughts were too fragmented to discuss, but she could feel his anxiety. She rolled over, nestling against him and felt the warm stir of lyrium in her blood. His markings flared briefly in response. Finally, with a groan, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for her wrapper.

"Do you wish to be alone with your thoughts?" Fenris asked deferentially. She knew it was his innate politeness asking the question. He had made it clear earlier that he would not leave her side until he had reassured himself that her trip into Anders's mind had no long term effects.

"No, thank you. I just – my mind is just too _aware_," she admitted, reaching behind her and finding his outstretched hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze, mindful of the tide of lyrium flowing through her veins in response to her agitation. Again, his markings flared and she sighed, releasing his hand. "It's like that rush during combat, when all your senses are alert to the least little thing," she confessed as she shrugged into her wrapper. He rose, pulling on his trousers before padding across the room, his bare feet slapping quietly at the hardwood floor.

Entering the kitchen, she set about making chamomile tea for them. Fenris rummaged in the walk-in pantry and came out with an armload of various food items. Margaret felt an unwilling smile tug at her lips and he looked defensive as he set about cutting slices of ham.

"You barely touched your food at dinner," he murmured at her unasked question. "Besides, I have noticed that your appetite is voracious when you are…uneasy."

She wanted to argue with him, to correct his perception, to tell him she didn't have an appetite, that it was a need to divert her attention. Instead she sliced bread and when she was done she slathered fresh butter on the slices.

"I can't bring myself to hate Anders. No matter what you say, or how others see him, I just can't," she confessed once they were seated at the small table tucked in a corner of the kitchen, near the banked fire.

"You can't bring yourself to hate anyone," Fenris replied, his voice stark as he took a slice of buttered bread and added cheese and ham to it before handing it to her. He raised a brow as she set it aside. Her stomach was in nearly as much turmoil as her mind.

"It would have been wiser, and kinder, to accede to Justice's demands," he added. "The sickness in him runs so deep it might not be possible to expunge it."

She shivered at his choice of words, but couldn't fault him for his opinion. "His childhood was horrific, Fenris. I can't even imagine the kind of pain he endured."

Lifting his brow after a quick shake of his head in disbelief, Fenris replied, "Perhaps you can't, but _I_ can. I can imagine precisely how horrific his childhood was as mine was not so dissimilar, yet I have not invited spirits and demons to take up residence because of it."

His words momentarily pushed aside her sympathy for Anders. Grateful for his doing so, she leaned forward and cupped his face, smiling tenderly. "You were strong enough to survive, Fenris. You had the will to do so. Obviously, Anders was not able to do the same."

"Obviously," Fenris replied with cool disdain.

She resisted remarking on his lack of empathy, knowing he was empathetic in many aspects but not when it came to the matter of most mages, especially Anders. She had discovered over the course of their time together that his dislike of Merrill had less to do with her being a blood mage than with her condescension for any elf not Dalish. She had tried to discuss it with him, to make him understand a certain amount of pride in one's heritage was normal but he felt, rightly or wrongly, that as long as certain elves held themselves to be superior to other elves there would never be a bridge between the two disparate groups.

"Will you not _try_ to eat?" he asked, eyeing the untouched food on her plate. His concern was touching and she loved him for his dogged determination to take care of her.

"I'll try."

"I want you to promise me that you won't allow yourself to be alone with Anders. He is dangerous, Margaret, perhaps even more so now that you have seen part of what he hides. He will not rest easy knowing that you had access to his thoughts."

"He doesn't remember any of it, Fenris," she argued but a chill weight settled in her chest and she shivered. Even _she_ didn't believe her words and she gave Fenris an apologetic smile.

"I can't promise, but I will try," she finally answered.

Raising a brow, Fenris bridged the gap between them to kiss her lightly on the lips. "Thank you, Margaret, I am grateful that you didn't lie to me by making such a promise then," he said with a hint of a smile. "Come, let's go back to bed before the day is upon us."

"I don't know that I can sleep," she responded truthfully.

"Excellent," he replied and a smile came to her lips as she followed him upstairs.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Come on, Commander! Kick his arse!" Carver shouted as Anya, perspiring and exhausted, swung her blade down in a quick arc. Nathaniel danced out of the way, bringing his dagger up and blocking her attack. She leaned into the attack, her second blade pushing against his chest, just below his heart.

Without a change in his expression, Nathaniel brought his forearm crashing down on hers with a sharp crack and her hand opened, the blade clattering onto the ground. She ducked, moving her good leg to the left, spinning to put her back to him as she switched her remaining dagger to her dominant hand and then spun to face him, the move surprisingly fluid as she brought the blade to his throat.

"My point," she breathed in a gasp, lungs burning. He bowed in acknowledgement once she'd removed the blade.

Stepping back, she stooped to pick up her weapon before assuming a defensive position. Her hip and leg throbbed from the workout, but the screaming pain from before was absent and she cast a quick glance at the audience that had gathered.

Standing beside Carver, Flynne shot her a smug grin as if he knew she wanted to thank him for his help. She rolled her eyes and his grin broadened. He bumped shoulders with Carver and muttered something that made Carver look at her.

"Give him what for, Commander!" Carver encouraged.

The match was tied at twenty points each and she needed only one more point to win, but that was true of Nathaniel as well, who was not nearly as winded as she was, nor as sweat-soaked. She swiped at her face with her sleeve and raised her right dagger to signal she was ready.

Glancing to the right, she stepped to her left before swiftly crouching low. It was a move that caught Nathaniel by surprise. From there, she pushed herself up and into his stomach, head butting him. He staggered backward and she tried, unsuccessfully, to bring her right leg forward to trip him but her hip and bad leg couldn't hold her weight and she fell, quickly rolling onto her back in order to keep him in her line of sight.

He was on her before she had time to roll to her side and push up. His blades were resting lightly against her, one just above her heart and the other at her throat. The question in the quirk of his brow made her growl in frustration but instead of conceding, she brought her legs up, arching and twisting her hips. He was thrown off by the unexpected move, landing beside her and rolling away before standing nimbly as she struggled to rise. He danced in closer and she reached out with her blade, catching the back of his leg.

He tumbled down to land on her and they rolled, each struggling for dominance. A low growl was torn from her throat and for a minute her fury twisted in her, giving her a rush of raw power. She pushed her practice-dagger into his side and saw his eyes dart to the left. "Give up?" she huffed, breathless and exhausted.

With a feral grin, he brought his hand up, making a slicing move with his dagger as he hit her wrist. Her fingers splayed, her dagger dropping with a metallic clink and then he was pushing her back. Her hip, already overworked, refused to comply with her commands and she let out a low hiss of pain, still unwilling to concede.

He clamped a hand around her wrists, rendering her other blade useless as he pinned her arms to her chest. Hovering above her, he rested his dagger above her heart. Gasping for breath and blinded by sweat, she finally conceded.

Nathaniel dropped his guard and carefully extricated himself, offering a hand that she accepted. Instead of feeling angry or embarrassed that she'd lost the match, she felt a swell of pride. Even as little as a month ago she wouldn't have had the ability to fight hand to hand and hold her own. The exercises and brace had given her more strength and mobility and she found her spirits oddly lifted by the loss.

"You would have won had it been anyone else but your lover," her brother remarked, offering her a thick, soft towel.

She was surprised to see that he had returned and she wondered what he knew of their father's dealings. Her greeting was cooler than she intended. "Why are you back so soon?"

His face carefully schooled and his tone stiffly formal, he intoned, "Her Imperial Highness, Celene the First, Sacred Sovereign of Orlais and all its territories, requests the pleasure of your company, and that of your esteemed Wardens, for high tea on the morrow."

Contrite, she put a light hand on his arm and gave him a wry, brief smile. "I will be honored, as will my companions."

He nodded once and was about to leave but she continued holding his arm, the tears from earlier threatening. Of course he would know everything about her father and he had warned her in subtle ways, even as far back as their meeting in Jader. She had been naïve and it wasn't his fault. She gave him an apologetic smile.

"It has been a difficult morning, which is not your fault. Forgive me."

He flashed a charming smile in return. "There's nothing to forgive. Let's go torment the cook for some of those chocolate pastries, eh?"

She laughed, sticky and hot and wanting a bath. "Not until I've cleaned up."

He leaned closer, and, under the guise of sniffing at her in feigned disgust, whispered, "Do not be too hard on him, Poppet. Not everything is as it seems."

She rolled her eyes at him and sighed. "I know. But sometimes it is. And sometimes it doesn't matter."

"True enough. Now, go and freshen up before Mother catches a whiff of you and a healer is required to set her to rights."

A short time later, she sank into a steaming bath, scented with verbena and lemon, a light scent that tickled her nose. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back as the warm water worked to uncoil tight muscles.

"He's right, you know," Nathaniel said quietly, entering the room. She opened an eye and gave him a tired smile.

"Of course he is; it is a Caron trait to be right."

"Or at least thinking they are," Nathaniel agreed with a grin.

She huffed and sat up, sloshing water onto the floor, only to find herself smiling again. "I love you, Nathaniel Howe. Thank you for knowing I needed to fight."

His answering smile was oddly boyish and he sank down on his haunches by the tub. "I recognize this is hardly the place or time, but I realized something important today and I want to share it with you."

"Oh, what is this important something?"

"I thought I needed permission from others but I realize the only person whose permission is necessary is sitting right here," he answered enigmatically. He leaned closer, his grey eyes alight with love.

Her heart began to pound loudly in her chest but she didn't speak, waiting for him to continue. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, feathering a kiss along her damp knuckles, causing her to shiver. "Anya Caron, will you do me the honor of marrying me?"

Water cascaded over the sides of the large brass tub as she quickly scooted closer to him, her heart continuing to beat erratically and joyfully in her chest. "Yes!" she answered breathlessly. "Yes," she whispered again as her lips found his.

The pastries, and her brother, were forgotten as Nathaniel lifted her out of the tub and into his arms.

Later, she simply told her brother she'd had a personal matter arise that required her immediate attention. There was just enough truth in the statement to keep it from being a lie.

**A/N:** _Lisa, you are an incredible friend and beta. My life, and stories, are made richer because of you._  
><em>Thank you, all of you who have stuck with this long-winded, winding tale. I appreciate it more than words can express. <em>


	41. Monsters and Myths

**A/N: **_Thank you, Lisa, for your beta time and energy! I know you are exhausted and I appreciate your work so much!  
><em>

**Monsters and Myths**

"Anders! I'm surprised to see you," Margaret greeted as he stepped into the clinic.

He smiled, his eyes darting around the room. "No patients?"

"I sent the last one on her way a few minutes ago," she answered.

He was dismayed to see her nervously smooth her gown into place as she stood. Not that he blamed her for being nervous. He hadn't exactly been the picture of stability lately. He sighed internally but kept his smile in place, hoping it wasn't frightening her even more. He felt the need to apologize and had no idea what for or if he even should.

She visibly relaxed her shoulders and he saw she was making an effort to at least _appear_ calm. He flashed a grateful look as he approached her, hesitating to step too close, but her shoulders tightened immediately and he saw her body stiffen. The sigh that he'd held back became vocal and he remained where he was, unwilling to send her fleeing and unsure how to demonstrate he was harmless. A bitter laugh held was held in check as he admitted even he didn't believe he was harmless.

_**Be careful, Anders. She's nervous and you know how I feel about nervous mages.**_

**You aren't in the least bit amusing, Vengeance. **

_**And you aren't in the least bit subtle. We are none of us what we wish we were. Now, send her on her way so we can start working on our powder.**_

**I told you a long time ago that the little bit the dwarf managed to obtain isn't enough. In order to break it down into its chemical composition I need more.**

_**Then I suggest we head out to the wounded coast and search the dreadnaught's wreckage. We can't sit around hoping for a larger sample to drop in our lap.**_

**Just give me a minute to think, Vengeance!**

Anders nodded reassuringly in Margaret's direction and quietly sat down near her, trying to remember the events of the past few weeks, especially the Qunari and their departure from Kirkwall. While he remembered most of it, there were some odd holes in his memory and he wasn't sure why or how to overcome them. But the episode with Fallon and his mental exhaustion had served to strengthen his hold on his own mind and he felt rested and in control in a way he hadn't before. He found his mind was sharper, and he quickly formulated a plan.

"So tell me, Margaret, have they finally managed to clean up that Qunari compound?" he finally asked, his voice carefully neutral. Even so, Margaret raised a brow at his question and he found himself explaining. "I thought I'd wander over there and see about setting up another clinic. With all the injuries those wharf rats come up with, it would save time."

"Oh, that's a good idea. The area is still under lock and key, but I'll speak with Seneschal Bran. I'm sure if he knows we're opening another free clinic he'll help. In fact," she added, standing, "I was just about to head home and I'll stop there on my way."

"Great, I could use the exercise," he said with forced good cheer.

"There's no need for that, Anders, truly. If I get the key I'll bring it with me tomorrow," she assured, smiling. He gave her credit for trying to mask her nervousness but her smile was a bit too reassuring and her voice a little too calm. Not that he blamed her; he knew he'd have been put away if anyone but her had been looking after him.

"I suppose so, but with all the sleeping I've done lately, I'm feeling a bit restless."

He watched her gather her cloak, keeping his expression as relaxed and open as possible and his muscles felt strangely stiff and uncooperative, as if they were unused to such expressions. On some fundamental level, he felt both a stranger to himself, and an old, familiar friend but he held those thoughts inside, knowing that to share them would frighten Margaret away.

She glanced at him and hesitated before smiling. "I wouldn't mind company on the walk," she confessed.

He hid his surprise at her admission. "I'm surprised Fenris isn't here to escort you."

Her smile softened at mention of Fenris, irritating Anders, but he held his tongue. They exited the clinic and, after locking the door, she handed him the key. "You look much more relaxed," she commented, pulling her cloak tight against a brisk wind. He stepped closer to her, his body acting as a shield against the wind.

"Amazing what a little sleep will do," he agreed with an easy grin. "I feel like a new man."

She shot him a brief, bright smile, her tone reflecting a more relaxed state. "You seem more yourself," she remarked.

**Myself? I don't even know what that is anymore.**

_**Self-pity is a waste of energy, Anders. I won't have it!**_

**Well, you're certainly still a stick in the mud, aren't you? I suppose only I feel like a new man.** Anders chuckled at the silence that followed.

"Are you moving back in to the mansion?" Margaret asked, breaking into his thoughts. He could tell from her manner that she was still nervous, but there was a natural compassion in her that was reflected in the smile she offered him.

"I – I wasn't sure you'd want me to, honestly, Margaret. And I wouldn't blame you if you would rather I didn't."

"Of course I want you to, Anders. I've missed your company."

It was a lie, but a kindly meant lie, he knew. Without acknowledging it as such, he allowed himself to believe that things could return to normal now, though he bit back a chuckle when he realized he hardly knew what normal was any more.

As they continued along the familiar streets, with the slowly setting sun casting long shadows across the pale stones of Kirkwall, Anders felt relief wash through him, a sense of peace that had little to do with the setting sun or the brisk walk, and everything to do with the silence of the monster in his head. He had told it to shut up and it had. He was in control and it felt liberating.

"You know, Margaret, I was thinking about naming the new clinic after your mother, as a sort of memorial for her. What do you think?" he asked, his mood continuing to lighten.

"Oh, Anders, that's a lovely thought."

Her smile was genuine, resting lightly on her lips, and it occurred to Anders, with sudden and blinding clarity, that she could have any man she wanted, that he should have pursued her early in their acquaintance because she was certainly beyond his grasp now, besotted as she was with that bitter elf. Still, he found himself smiling as they continued on, wondering what it might have been like had he wooed her when they'd first met. He knew there were times when she was uneasy in his presence and unsure of him. Still … he allowed his mind to drift in that direction.

_She is not Anya._

Anders's thoughts dissolved at the quiet admonition. Of course she wasn't Anya. And he would never have Anya back in his life, Vengeance had made sure of that. But because he couldn't have Anya didn't mean he didn't long for companionship with someone he didn't have to pay for. Would he never truly get his life back? Cursing silently, Anders realized that the monster he had thought to be silent was merely biding its time.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anya and her Wardens arrived at the Imperial Palace with a small entourage of chevaliers, who were left to cool their heels in an antechamber as her group was led to a well-appointed reception room. The Imperial Guard, with brisk precision, saluted and began the procedures that all guests of the empress underwent.

After Flynne was drained of mana and all their weapons confiscated, the Grey Wardens were led into a grand room off the main reception hall of the imperial palace. Anya had warned them ahead of time what to expect and, though Flynne was deeply unhappy, he'd understood the precautions. The templar who'd drained his mana had been highly skilled, leaving Flynne with just enough mana to prevent him from becoming nauseous.

Carver had willingly given up his greatsword and Nathaniel, after a moment's hesitation, had relinquished both his daggers, as well as his bow and quiver full of arrows. Anya placed her bow beside his, standing her quiver up against the wall. She removed her daggers and a small boot knife, suspecting that Nathaniel had similar weapons that he had not handed over, but the guards didn't seem inclined to search them and Anya remained quiet. Calling attention to it would only lead to an embarrassing scene.

The room they were eventually led into was magnificent. Anya, having been in the chamber many times, was not in the least awed by it, but the others were. In fact, everything about the Grand Imperial Audience Chamber, as it was formally known, was designed to intimidate and overwhelm.

From the myriad crystal facets and prisms of the massive chandeliers that hung from the vaulted ceiling to the mirror-lined walls that reflected the light from those chandeliers, to the gilt furniture and richly woven carpets to the ornately carved and jewel-encrusted throne at the far end of the room, the chamber caused guests to feel inconsequential. Carver stopped mid-stride to stare around him and Anya couldn't fault him. The splendor of the room added to the intimidation factor.

They were left to await the empress who had been detained, according to an aide. Anya knew that the waiting was part of the game, as well, to keep those seeking an audience off-guard or impatient and nervous. It was working in Carver's case and Anya felt badly for him, but refused to allow him to demonstrate just how nervous he was to those who were watching from behind the scenes.

"Stop fidgeting, Warden Carver. That's an order!" Anya commanded quietly as the young man tugged at his tabard again. He shuffled from one foot to the other before nodding, his expression grimly determined. He pulled at a lock of his hair and Anya turned away so he wouldn't see her smile.

"The chandeliers were made at the Pluvial Glass Works in Hossberg," she explained, pointing to one of the fixtures in the hope of easing Carver's tension.

Glass made in the Anderfels was renowned throughout Thedas and used extensively in the Imperial Palace, from chandeliers to wine goblets. Celene had been fascinated with the delicacy of the glass and had ordered a school erected in Val Royeaux to teach the art of glass-making. Anya remembered the day the school produced its first piece of glass, a beautiful crystal chalice that stood on display in the Imperial Museum.

"I notice there isn't a fireplace," Flynne commented, shivering slightly, though Anya noted the room was not cold. She gave him a reassuring smile.

"The chandeliers create enough heat that a fireplace isn't necessary. Before those were hung, the room was cold, or so I'm told, but Emperor Florian preferred keeping those seeking an audience cooling their heels. My fa – I was only here once under his reign and don't really remember much about it."

A brief pang caused her to fall silent again. She should have given her father a chance to explain himself. She should have had more faith in him. Eyes closed, she let memories of her childhood push into her thoughts until that was all that remained. Her father had been unlike her friends' fathers, taking time each day to talk to her, to learn what her interests were, to share his. And his pride in being an Orlesian had shown in every aspect of his life, a pride that had not diminished over the years.

He didn't care a snap for the nobles, or their games, he cared about Orlais, its rich history and its diverse people. She had forgotten all of that in her fit of pique. She had every right to be angry and hurt, but she'd been wrong not to allow him to explain himself. She would have to rectify that at some point, but there was a part of her, a rebellious young woman who was angry at the way he had treated her.

She glanced at Nathaniel, standing quietly and at ease as he waited for the empress. As if aware of her gaze, he turned and gave her a brief, reassuring nod. There was a hint of a smile in the quirk of his lips and he seemed perfectly relaxed, despite the intimidating chamber they were in. She was about to move to his side when the intricately carved, gilt-trimmed doors opened at the far end of the room and two liveried servants entered, each carrying a highly polished brass horn.

With a flourish, they brought the horns up and blared out the arrival of the empress. Anya and her men snapped to attention and four footmen, followed by six ladies-in-waiting entered the chamber, all exquisitely dressed in the rich purple and gold of the royal house. The ladies were from the most notable of the aristocracy and, had Giselle Caron had her way, Anya would have been amongst them. As it was, the varying shades of auburn and red hair indicated four of them were a part of the vast network of cousins and she recognized Sophia Courimeux and Agrippa Delacroix as part of the retinue, both of whom were cousins and former playmates. They had always desired to become part of the empress's court while Anya had always dreamed of becoming a chevalier in service to Her Most Holy Empress, Celene the First of Orlais.

As if conjured by her thoughts, the empress stepped into the room. Everyone dropped into the required curtsy or bow amidst the soft whisper of fine silk and the low creak of polished armor.

"Cousin! Such a pleasure to see you back from the wilds of Ferelden! I am sure you have the most exciting tales to tell. Come, dear Anya!" the empress cried gaily, beckoning Anya and her group forward.

What the empress lacked in conventional beauty was made up by the charisma of her presence and the charm of her smile. Though not plain at all, she was without the perfection that many believed true beauty to be. Anya couldn't help but smile at the notion that Celene wasn't perfect in every respect from her glossy auburn curls to her dimpled smile to her eyes that were more green than blue. She exuded confidence and intelligence as an almost physical aura that clung to her. Her gown was an exquisite peacock blue creation, trimmed in ermine and gold braiding, and she looked radiant as she smiled at them. One would be hard pressed to look at Celene and not see beauty.

Anya took two steps before she heard a hiss that sounded very much like an angry cat about to spit. "No, no, do not take another step, I shall come to you, _ma chère_!" the empress exclaimed, starting forward.

Color swept into Anya's cheeks, brought on by her annoyance with her cousin. "Don't be silly, Cel – pray do not trouble yourself on my account, Empress Celene," she corrected herself, irritated at her lapse. She continued forward, her chin tilted slightly, trying to ignore the smug smiles that Sophia and Agrippa exchanged.

Celene met her part way and the women hugged briefly, ceremoniously kissing each other's cheeks in the time-honored tradition and then Anya sank into a low curtsy again, as painful as it was to perform. "I bring the best wishes and heartfelt greetings of His Majesty, King Alistair."

"Indeed? How marvelous of him to send the Commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden all the way to Val Royeaux to extend such effusive greetings," Celene said with a hint of irony in her warm tones. "Especially one who was more grievously wounded than her cousin was led to believe. Come," she ordered, taking Anya's hand and tucking it into the crook of her elbow before leading her to a door hidden behind one of the mirrors.

The room they stepped into was small and intimate, with several silk-clad stuffed chairs, a settee and a pair of low tables furnishing it. A formal tea service sat on one of the tables. "Your men will be fine for the moment, Cousin. Tell me what happened to you and who is that wonderfully dark, brooding man you are traveling with?"

"Let's start with the important answers first," Anya said, grinning. "That wonderfully dark, brooding man is my betrothed, and that means you are not to flirt with him, Cousin, or you will have to go toe-to-toe with me."

"_Créateur!_ Marriage? You? That is wonderful news, Annie, but I believe you owe me a rather large sum of gold now, do you not?"

"You would do well to allow yourself to fall in love and marry, Celene."

"And share my rule with someone? A man who would, no doubt, wish to rule _me_ as well as Orlais? Absurd! For now, at least, I am content with my lovers, dear one. Now, who is this paragon of broodiness that you have attached yourself to?"

Anya laughed lightly. "You make me sound like a barnacle attached to a ship's hull," she complained. "And his name is Nathaniel Howe."

Celene's arched brow rose. "He is related to that reprehensible butcher? The most debauched man in all of Ferelden? The stories of him are – horrific. Tell me how you came to be in his son's company?"

"Oh please, Celene, do not pretend that you know nothing of my title as Arlessa of Amaranthine, the very arling Rendon Howe ruled? How insulting of you."

Celene sighed, an unrepentant smile gracing her lips. "I did that to ensure the Grey Wardens would have a say in their future in Ferelden."

"Nonsense. You did it because you want Orlesian friends in influential positions throughout Thedas," Anya remonstrated, her smile dimming. "And I resent that you felt it unnecessary to inform me of such an action."

"Ah, here comes the infamous Caron wrath. Shall I call my guards?" Celene teased, tilting her head playfully.

"You and I both know there are two guards listening to every word we speak and watching every action we take." Anya turned her head and looked at an innocuous tapestry of the Battle of Perendale, waving at it.

"You were always entirely too impudent," Celene sighed, before the humor fell away and she eyed Anya with a serious, piercing gaze. "What brings you to Orlais?"

"You, Your Highness."

"I'm flattered, but I sent no invitation."

"Must everything be a game, Cousin?" Anya asked, her tone low enough that the guards couldn't hear, but loud enough to impart her frustration.

Celene pursed her lips as if in contemplation. "I suspect the answer is known to us both, _ma chère_, is it not? Did I not warn you long ago that there is only the game for many? Did I not say that lies flow sweetly from honeyed tongues? "

"Yes, and it would seem you were correct. Now, what is going on? Are Etienne and de Chalons working to create civil unrest? Is the Chevalier Dirigeant working for the crown or the country? Or is it possible that he works for both? And what are you hoping to accomplish by cozying up to the Grey Wardens?"

A peal of genuine laughter, sweet and light, came from Celene as Anya finished. "All that wonderful subterfuge you were taught at court seems to have been forgotten," she said, waving negligently at the tapestry. There was a quiet patter of feet retreating. "I shall blame Fereldans."

"Blame them for what? If you think that Fereldans lack the ability to play the game, you badly underestimate them. The arrogance of the Orlesians will one day be their downfall."

"You are saying that Maric's bastard son is not as sweetly innocent as I have been led to believe?" Celene asked, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

Anya's eyebrow arched. "His advisor is a very honorable man, but that doesn't mean he isn't capable of playing the game as well. In fact, I believe you would find Chancellor Teagan Guerrin a surprising challenge."

Celene sighed, her playfulness falling away from her like a cloak being discarded. "Tell me, Annie, what happened to you? I heard rumors, of course, and Raoul explained that it had to do with an ambush, but could your healers do nothing for you?"

"They did a great deal for me, including keeping me alive when they were all convinced I would die."

"Perhaps my healers could be of assistance?" the empress offered quietly.

At one time, Anya had wanted nothing more than to place herself in the hands of the court healers, reputed to be the best in all of Thedas. Those desperate hopes had been all that had kept her going in the weeks after the attack, but now she knew that her only real hope of mobility was in the physical therapy that Flynne had devised; that she would never be without a limp. The old fears and insecurities were gone and she realized she had finally accepted the fact that her twisted hip was a part of who she was. She smiled, reaching out and lightly squeezing Celene's hand as it rested on Anya's arm.

"Your sympathy is most appreciated, as is your generosity, Celene, but there is nothing they can do. My healer has helped tremendously and I'm fine, really."

A brief silence fell, finally broken by Celene's questions about life in Ferelden. When she had exhausted the topic, Anya turned the conversation to Etienne and de Chalons. "Why do you not just marry Etienne? Or de Chalons, for that matter? Emasculate them, if you must, but keep them from plotting in secrecy."

"Did I not discuss this marriage notion just moments ago? No, I will not give either man the satisfaction. Besides, dear Cousin, what makes you believe they plot in secret?"

Anya raised a brow, waiting for Celene to continue and when she didn't, Anya shook her head. "You are brilliant and far too clever for your own good, Celene, but as long as you do not legitimize the line of succession there will be cousins, and highly placed nobles, who believe they have as much right to the throne as you do. Uniting them through matrimony is not without merit."

"And the minute I legitimize the line of succession is the moment I sign the death warrants of many cousins."

"I see we will go round and round on the subject, so let me ask you why you want the Grey Wardens in your service?"

The change of subject surprised Celene; Anya saw it in the way the Celene's eyes briefly narrowed. "Who would not want such a force at her side, should the worse come to pass?"

"So it is your intention to fill up the Warden ranks with highly placed nobles in every nation? Preferably Orlesian nobles?"

"Surely you have noticed that there is unrest throughout the Free Marches, and Nevarra, but even more within the Chantry itself. War of some kind is coming, Anya, I can see it in the desperate acts of de Chalons and Etienne, in the Divine's odd behavior of late, in the increasing number of templars being recruited. Something is coming and I would be remiss if I didn't do everything within my power to prepare for whatever it is."

"Oh? Were you aware of this mysterious something when you dictated to Alistair that the Warden Commander of Ferelden should be a noble? Or were you merely safeguarding your position as far back as that?"

"Had someone warned me that capturing the throne would be a much easier feat than holding on to it, I would have laughed at the notion. Sadly, it is true. Why else would I have participated in such machinations?"

Anya's eyebrow crept up again. "You knew. Don't even pretend otherwise. Now quit making my head ache with these careful dances. Tell me what I need to know and I will gladly leave you, and Orlais, to your games."

Her cousin's smile widened and she wagged a finger at Anya. "Now who's playing games? You have a visit to the Divine, Justinia the Fifth, planned for tomorrow, do you not? Or did Raoul lie to me?"

Exasperated, Anya let out a sigh. "You know very well that the reason for the visit is the disposition of the former queen of Ferelden, who is plotting with Etienne, and therefore de Chalons and Maker knows who else, to usurp the throne of Orlais and invade Ferelden. In the meantime I have agents and assassins harassing my Wardens. To add to the confusion there are issues in both Kirkwall and Nevarra that seem to have influence on the actions of the Brotherhood of the Wolf and other groups, many of whom are watching my every move. I can't imagine why a Grey Warden would be of the least importance so I will repeat my plea to stop playing these games."

Celene rose and paced the small room, the gentle sway of her dress creating a soft susurration of silk against silk with each step. She was agitated, which made Anya's concern deepen. "Cousin?" she asked softly, unable to keep a note of anxiety from her tone.

"The war with Nevarra for mineral rights in Perendale and the Blasted Hills may not have been entirely about mineral rights."

Frowning, Anya's mind began to sort through what else might be of interest to both nations and might also require the Grey Wardens. She tried to recall maps of the area and then her heart dipped as she realized what a nation that was renowned for their dragon hunting skills might want with an area that had been devastated by an unknown force decades earlier.

"Oh Maker! Those were legends told to frighten us, Celene. You can't honestly believe that there are dragon lairs underground in that area?"

"Chantry dogma claims there are dragons; that they are the false gods who promised to teach the Tevinter magisters great magic. The Grey Wardens claim knowledge of where the false gods are imprisoned. Are they not dragons? We have all seen and read enough to know that dragons exist and are powerful. Just imagine the power one would yield if one possessed even a single dragon!"

"They're just myths and fables. This nonsense in giving them god-like abilities and importance serves no one, Celene. We used to laugh at those who believed such foolishness. We used to play dragon games as children because they were the stuff of legends and lore. I'm not saying that they aren't real, just that the history of their magical abilities and intelligent designs are largely myth. Let them stay in our childhood."

"Were it that simple, Cousin, " Celene said with an unhappy laugh. "Unfortunately, it would seem that the stories of the dragon lairs in the Blasted Hills aren't entirely myths."

Stunned, Anya sank back in her chair, mind reeling. Pieces of the puzzle slipped into place as she tried to gather her thoughts. It certainly explained why the Nevarrans and the Wardens were involved. Whoever went in search of the dragon lairs would need the Wardens to clear the tunnels and caverns of darkspawn.

Another thought pushed aside that one. If the Archdemons were not the old gods, but merely tainted dragons, the number of Blights suddenly became limitless. The ramifications in the political and religious arenas were infinitesimal compared to that one thought.

"Holy Maker," Anya whispered, appalled. "What does Magnus say about this?"

"The First Warden is sending the Warden Archivist, as well as Second Warden Dacey , to assist us in any way possible. He believes that we must find the dragon lairs and control the dragons within."

"Does de Chalons know about this? Is that why he's acting against you?"

"So it would seem. But there is something else at work as well, or he would not be interested in Ferelden. We assume that there may be more dragon lairs there, or some knowledge that could be useful regarding dragons," Celene replied, a note of sympathy in her voice.

Anya felt as if she was mired in mud, her brain moving sluggishly and only with great effort. "So all of this has been –"

"About the return of the dragons to Thedas," Celene finished quietly. "The one who controls the dragons, controls Thedas."

Anya gave an unhappy laugh at the notion. "These are not mages to be controlled through the Rite of Tranquility; one does not control a dragon, Your Highness. One merely hopes to survive the encounter."

It was madness to believe otherwise, but all the pieces slipped slowly into place and she realized that the woman before her did not believe such sentiment.


	42. Masks Within Masks

**A/N: **_First, I apologize for the lengthy delay. As many of you know, I was sick and in and out of hospital for most of November. Luckily, and because I took enough medicine to open my own pharmacy, I'm much, much better.  
>Thank you, Lisa, for your unflagging support, help and encouragement. I'd be lost without you.<br>And finally, my heartfelt thanks for all who continue to follow, read, review and lurk. Your continuing support is the best medicine of all!  
><em>

**Masks Within Masks**

"Celene, you are many things, but I never took you for a fool. If - and that is a large if - there are dragons to be found, what makes you think you can control them? I've encountered a high dragon and, while there seemed to be intelligence in her strategy…"

Celene's tinkling laughter broke into Anya's lecture, forcing her to grit her teeth lest she say something that could be considered seditious or malicious. Being one of Celene's favorites did not give her immunity and for a moment she had forgotten that. It wouldn't be wise to do so again. Damn this game, Anya swore silently, wishing fervently that she had not become entangled in court machinations again. She had left that life behind for a reason and now she seemed to be swimming in it once more.

The Grand Game, indeed, she groused silently. But the Grand Game was a misnomer. There was nothing grand about it, nor was it a game. It was a way of life, a survival tool, and one to be used with extreme caution. Should she overstep the bounds, Celene would not hesitate to punish her. And there were others even more desirous of a Caron's fall from grace. How had she ever lulled herself into believing otherwise?

"My dear, you look positively aghast at such a notion, and I am hurt by your lack of faith in me." This was spoken with a becoming moue conveying sadness, followed by a practiced pout.

"Not in _you_, Cousin, but in a dragon's willingness to be conquered," Anya disagreed with a diplomatic smile, her anger and concern bubbling beneath the surface of her court mien. It saddened her to realize how quickly and easily she had slipped into the Grand Game, the court subterfuge, the life she had eschewed.

"La, dear Anya, you give me far too much credit. I have someone who has shown a propensity for – but never mind that for the moment. We must bring your men in and I will flirt with the handsome Nathaniel. Such an aristocratic nose. Are you quite taken with him or do I stand a chance?"

Celene batted her lashes, darkened with kohl and emphasizing the beautiful blue-green color of her eyes. A natural coquette, a beautiful tease, Celene was all that was charming. And inscrutable. And intelligent. Anya repressed a shudder. It would be the height of folly to forget who she was dealing with. The seeming slip of information regarding the dragons was no slip at all and not meant to console her but warn her, Anya felt sure. It was an unsettling thought.

"Quite taken," she finally confirmed lightly, her smile becoming genuine despite her desire to wring Celene's neck or discuss her cousin's frightening and bizarre plans to have an army of dragons. She knew she had no more chance of that than of making the darkspawn all disappear. Instead, she watched as the men were ushered in. She was both amused and annoyed when Celene linked her arm with Nathaniel's and gave him a radiant, if somewhat obvious, smile.

Nathaniel shot Anya a look of alarm and she gave a small, expressive shrug. She trusted Nathaniel with her life. She trusted Celene not at all.

"So, Nathaniel Howe, what is it like to be under my cousin?"

Anya groaned, watching as Nathaniel shrugged, a resigned smile gracing his austere face. She heard Flynne snort softly and knew, without looking, that Carver was watching with bright curiosity.

"Shall I pour, or will you?" Anya asked and waited as Celene's teasing laugh sounded brightly, like small silver cymbals.

"Oh, la, Anya, pour away while I flirt with your very handsome trio of Wardens."

And the empress did exactly that, much to Anya's amusement and relief, allowing her to collect her thoughts. Celene had told her, years earlier, that the best way to learn about a man's character was to flirt and then watch his reactions. Anya had never been comfortable practicing such behavior, but Celene had mastered flirting, bringing it to a new art form and Anya sat back and watched as the charismatic Empress of Orlais worked her magic on the three men present.

There was a certain smugness in Anya as she watched Carver's open face, aware that he may be intimidated by the woman's rank, but was not inveigled by her charms, try though Celene did to entice him. Flynne seemed to be having as much fun flirting with Celene as she was with him and Nathaniel was both diplomatic and restrained.

"You men wait outside, yes? I wish to speak with my lovely cousin a moment more," Celene finally dismissed with a casual sweep of her arm. The men bowed and departed swiftly.

"He will do for a Fereldan, though I confess, dear Cousin, that he seems much more open minded than many of his countrymen. Why is that, do you imagine?"

Anya raised a brow. "I suppose because he spent so many years in the Free Marches. Not," she added softly, "that I was in need of your approval."

Another tinkling laugh filled the room and Celene captured Anya's chin between her thumb and forefinger, studying her until Anya's anger began to simmer again. "Be careful, Anya, there are more games afoot than even you have guessed at."

"Only because you insist on playing them."

Celene's eyes narrowed and her expression hardened. In that instant, Anya saw the consummate politician and coquette fall away, leaving only an implacable ruler. "If I don't play them, what chance do I have of bringing enlightenment? Would you have our cousin upon the throne? What would he bring to our nation, I wonder? Feudalism? I am the only true hope for a brighter age," she said uncompromisingly. With a delicate shudder, she dropped her hand, her face resuming its usual mask. Anya could not help wondering how many other despots had made the same claim.

"Now get you gone, Cousin. I shall see you tomorrow night at the gala."

It was not a request, but Anya shrugged, her rebelliousness chafing at Celene's heavy handed behavior. "I hadn't thought to attend," she said more glibly than she'd intended as she moved to the door and freedom.

"I would rethink that, darling Anya. Bring your men, they will enjoy it."

Stilling, Anya turned to face Celene. "I cannot dance, lest it has escaped your notice, Celene, and I don't find myself disposed to such festivities."

"A shame, truly. You were always a most graceful dancer, my dear, but you will still enjoy the gala even without dancing, yes? Oh yes, dearest Cousin, I am certain you will."

Dropping a stiff, clumsy curtsy, Anya eased out of the room, furious. She was silent as the group made their way out of the audience chambers. She was nearly to the door – and freedom – when she noticed a tall, raven-haired woman approaching, dressed in rich and exotic clothing that perfectly suited the feral beauty of her features and the incredible gold of her eyes.

As the woman neared them, a brief flare of humor rested in the quirk of full lips and, if possible, her expression became even haughtier. Anya felt herself drawing her shoulders back as she met the golden-eyed beauty's gaze directly. The woman refused to drop her eyes and Anya felt a stirring in her gut, a sudden coldness in the day. A shiver pressed on her spine but she refused to allow it to deter her own measured withdrawal from the room.

On the other side of the door, she paused and took a deep breath. Carver frowned at her and rubbed his chin in thought. "What is it, Carver? Do you know her?" she asked, frowning at him.

"Know her? Maker, no! But those eyes … I've seen them before, or near enough to be the same pair. Just can't think where."

"Maker's arse, Carver, I swear you've taken one hit too many to the head," Flynne muttered, half in jest.

"Hey now, how's about _you_ take a hit to the head, magey?" Carver snapped indignantly, raising a fist.

The two fell into playful bickering as the group descended the long, curved stairway, but Anya couldn't bring herself to join in, disturbed by her interview with Celene as well as the strange, exotic woman now gracing Celene's court. Who was she? What did she want with Celene?

Sighing, exhausted from the audience and the need to maintain pretenses she detested, she made her way out of the palace. She was anxious, in need of physical distraction in the hope of clearing her head and discussing what she'd learned in her meeting with Celene, although she still had trouble believing a quest for dragons was at the heart of the matter. It seemed fantastical and outrageous, the stuff of dreams and fictions and fairytales.

"Chauvice! Take us to the Grey Warden training compound at once, if you would," she instructed the coachman as she climbed into the carriage with its brightly painted spokes and the crest of the Caron family emblazoned on the sides.

"Of course, Lady Anya," the coachman replied with a deferential nod.

"I thought the Grey Warden compound was on the palace grounds?" Carver asked, stretching his long legs out as he settled against the squabs.

"The formal compound is. The training compound is just east of the city. I thought you might like to see how wealthy Grey Wardens live," she teased him.

Silence fell and Anya was momentarily distracted with her thoughts again. How much should she tell? How much could she tell? Who would believe her if she did speak of it? And who was the woman with the strangely compelling golden eyes?

As the coach clattered into the eastern part of the city on the way to the eastern gate, known as the Victory Gate, Anya explained how it had come by its name. After having repelled numerous invasions from both darkspawn and the Tevinter Imperium, the gate was legendary. It was a massive, fortified structure, the actual doors fancifully carved and painted with rampant lions and peacocks with their tails fanned out. It was impressive, edged as it was with gold leaf and always in a state of fresh repair. The guards wore ceremonial uniforms, their purple piping and gold plate shining brilliantly when struck by the sun, and large baskets of flowers blooming on either side of the crenellated guard houses, painted purple and gold.

"You'll appreciate the uniforms, Carver," she commented with a teasing smile before becoming lost in her thoughts again.

"Are you going to tell us what Celene said that upset you?" Nathaniel whispered quietly, his grey eyes alert and watchful.

Before Anya could voice any of her thoughts, she heard one of the outriders, a chevalier sent to accompany them, cry out in startled pain, followed by the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. The carriage rocked dangerously as the driver called to his horses. Anya was thrown to the floor of the carriage, painfully biting her tongue as her head met the floor.

The carriage careened around a corner, clipping the curbstone and she was bounced with a jolting pain, her head hitting Carver's booted leg. She could feel Nathaniel moving to help her and then his hand fell away as the couch bounced along. The sound of horses giving chase and the screams of spectators drowned out her curse as she struggled to right herself.

"Runaway carriage!" came a cry of terror, faceless and lost immediately as the coach gathered speed.

A bolt shattered the small coach window to her right, glass shards glittering as they rained down. Instinctively, Anya covered her head and felt several pieces imbed themselves in her hands, a stinging indictment of her ineptitude.

"Stay down," Nathaniel urged as he pushed the curtain back. With a slight, apologetic smile, he opened the door and reached up for the rail that ran around the driver's box.

"What? Nathaniel! Get back in here!" she cried, her words carried away by the rush of wind as the coach continued gathering speed.

Carver followed him. She rose to go after them, clinging to the seat as the coach swung wildly. She realized there was no driver, that the horses were running wild and terrified. Her heart and breath stopped only to begin on a course as wild and terrified as that of the horses.

She pulled her bow off her back, ripped the curtains from the coach window and tried to take aim at something, but it was impossible to see who was a guard and who was firing at them. A number of both were wearing masks, some of the Imperial Guard and others of the Chevaliers, or so she thought but it was impossible to tell in the chaos. The noise was deafening with the shouts of men and the wild neighing of frightened horses and Anya couldn't steady her arm enough to aim accurately as she was bounced painfully, biting the inside of her cheek again. She heard Carver's stream of instructions to the horses, delivered in a surprisingly loud but calm voice but the horses continued their wild run.

She didn't dare fire an arrow, afraid she would hit a bystander if she tried. Her shoulder, smacking into a wooden panel, flared in pain. She was vaguely aware of Flynne's soothing magic, his voice as steady as a drumbeat, his spell taking the worst of the pain. The high whine of an arrow pierced through the other sounds and, with a deep _thud_ , struck the thick wooden side of the carriage just beside her.

The carriage jolted and tipped precariously. Her head slammed against the carriage wall once more as the coach began to slowly tip past the point of control, its balance irrevocably lost. The air filled with splintering wood and wild horses and the shouts and cries of her men. She was hurled from her position, the floor racing with astonishing speed to meet her. Stars flashed brightly and then darkness crashed into her.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The enclosed area was little more than a rubble-strewn garbage heap, Anders discovered, surveying the area in disgust. The Qunari had departed in a hurry, leaving behind a compound littered with debris and detritus, tall mounds of abandoned goods that were as disconcerting as they were impersonal, as it appeared they had removed all their personal belongings.

Disappointment roiling in his gut, so strong it was making him queasy, Anders looked around him in dismay. "I expected them to be a bit neater," he confessed to Margaret with a brief bark of humorless laughter. "Didn't you?"

He knelt by a pile of papers, held down by a brick, their edges ruffling lightly in a soft breeze. He picked up a paper and frowned as he tried to decipher the words. "I don't suppose you speak Qunlat?" he asked without hope of a favorable answer.

He watched as Margaret's brow rose and a smile touched her lips. "Not one word of it," she confessed. "Fenris might. And there is a Qunari who stayed behind, in case Isabela returned. If he is able to read at all he might be able to help you. But what do you hope to find?"

The question caught him off guard and for a minute an excuse evaded him. Stalling for time, he smiled and slowly rose, dusting off his robe, giving himself time to find an answer that she would accept. "I'd like to know more about that poison they used, wouldn't you? It would be nice to have a counteragent to it. Besides, aren't you curious about their culture?" he continued, his smile widening as he waggled his brows until she was smiling as well.

"I'm too relieved that the whole matter has resolved itself to worry about their culture at the moment, but I take your meaning," she confessed with an embarrassed huff of laughter.

Anders was struck again by how beautiful Margaret was, but also how different from Anya. Margaret was much more genteel and circumspect, without the spark that lit Anya from within and made her personality glow as brightly as her dark red hair when caught in sunlight. Maker, he missed her. While he appreciated Margaret's own golden beauty and intelligence, if not her divine fire, it served to illustrate just what he was missing. Still, she was more easily distracted and manipulated so he chose to ignore the longing for Anya and internally denied the fleeting thought that he would take advantage of those personality traits. He would, of course, do whatever Vengeance bade him, he knew. Yet, he found his thoughts once more on Anya and the longing in his blood was almost a song.

**Cease squandering time on such sentiment! Would you miss this opportunity just to mourn for a woman you can no longer have?**

Anders felt a raw pain curl around him. How was it possible that he felt as wounded and lonely now as he had when he'd first arrived in Kirkwall? Why was the pain as sharp? He rubbed at his forehead, as if he could rub the pain away. It was like opening an old wound or watching one that refused to heal, he thought, blinking at the tears that shimmered like silvered gauze in his vision.

"Anders? Are you all right?"

The concern in Margaret's voice indicated it was not the first time she had asked the question and he blinked, clearing his head. "Sorry, maybe I'm not quite as strong as I thought," he admitted, allowing her to slip her arm around his waist and lead him to an abandoned chair. He sank into it and closed his eyes against the guilt that flickered at his lie.

He felt a slow bloom of warmth in the center of his chest, stretching out and down and around him until it flowed like warm water through his veins. He accepted her rejuvenation spell with a reluctant smile.

"And now?" she asked quietly.

_She is not Anya._

**No, she is not, and we are well aware of your devotion to Anya, but Margaret will do nicely. Quite nicely, indeed.**

_**Yes, I think so too. **_

Anders felt a low hum of disapproval and for one beat of his heart he felt remorse, but the remorse, along with the earlier flicker of guilt, had no place in his work, work he had neglected for far too long. Shrugging it aside, he cast a tired smile at Margaret.

"Much better, thank you, Hawke."

**~~~oOo~~~**

"You cannot possibly believe I approve," Fenris said, not attempting to keep the anger from his voice. She heard the cold, implacability of it and Margaret's own anger rose and then faded as she slipped her arm through his, pulling him into the study.

Shutting the door behind them, she urged him to sit but he refused. Biting back both a sharp remark, and, ever more damning in his eyes, a smile at his ill-temper, she gave him instead an unwavering stare.

"You wish, no doubt, to remind me of the happy family you believe we have all become?" Fenris asked with a frosty sneer.

"I wish to remind you that I am a grown woman, capable of looking after myself," she replied quietly, her voice calm and unremarkable, though she felt her heartbeat increase so quickly and forcefully that she felt it was in danger of galloping from her chest. She took a steadying breath and kept her eyes fastened to his.

Arms folded, eyebrow quirked, Fenris asked, "Have I, in any regard, said otherwise?"

"By your very concern," she replied with a twitch of her lips. "By your lack of approval. Unless, of course, you're actually jealous?" she teased, her own anger dissipating when she realized he was still, in many aspects, an insecure man.

"He is a master of deceit, Margaret. You cannot afford to trust him."

"He had a mental breakdown, Fenris, but he's no danger to anyone now."

Fenris snorted derisively. "I did not take you for naïve."

She stared at him in surprise. "Yes, let us believe I am naïve and not that you are unfairly prejudicial," she remarked dryly.

She watched as color rose to suffuse his cheeks. She wanted to lean over and kiss his cheek, to let her lips steal along the resolute thrust of his jaw but instead, she cleared her throat. "Having seen the depravity that Kirkwall and its environs offers, I can hardly be called naïve, Fenris. Nor do I plan on blindly opening the door for Anders again. I stopped by Seneschal Bran's office and he was able to suggest two rather stalwart footmen to take up duties in the mansion starting tomorrow. Unless," she added with a gleam in her eyes, "you are finally willing to move in?"

"I – Margaret, we have discussed this," Fenris began, a hesitancy in his voice gone so quickly she thought she had imagined it. "I will not put your life at risk. Once I have dealt with my past, I will consider your offer."

"Why Fenris, I believe you're blushing," Margaret laughed lightly, reaching out and touching his warm, reddened cheeks.

"Your need to tease and torment is as strong as ever, I see," he replied gruffly.

"As is yours to lecture. Especially with regard to Anders."

"He is no mere mage, nor even a blood mage, but a demon. How can you make light of such a thing?"

She shrugged. "I feel badly for him, despite everything he has done. There is something broken about him, Fenris, and I want to help him recover, to find a healthy outlet for himself. Is that so terrible of me?"

Fenris stared at her, the anger no longer apparent, but he was worried, she saw it in the pucker of his brows and the firmness in his gaze. The silence lengthened until it stretched tautly and felt as though it would snap. A log in the fireplace popped, sending a shower of sparks to beat futilely against the fire screen. She waited for Fenris to speak again, the tension between them dissolving.

"It is one of the traits I admire in you, Margaret, your need to help every stray. I suspect that is why you were initially attracted to me," he added, a question hidden in his statement.

"Fenris! Don't be absurd. I found you attractive because your lyrium branding sings to me," she teased with a tender smile.

"And his demon does not?" Fenris inquired with a raised brow that caused Margaret to hide a smile. He was both belligerent and oddly vulnerable as he waited for her response.

Continuing to bite back her smile, she shook her head. "Not in the least. I've sent off for a book from the college in Cumberland about possession. I'm hoping we can extricate the demon and send him back into the Fade."

"A foolish notion."

"Foolish or not, the deed is done and I'm hoping that even if it doesn't tell us how to do it, it might give clues on how to communicate with it and perhaps allow Anders a measure of peace."

"He will consider it meddling, and for good reason."

"Perhaps, but I can't just sit back and watch him slide back into the dark, Fenris, you know I can't."

"No, you cannot. Still, I would caution you against raising your hopes, Margaret. He is not the Anders you believe him to be," Fenris chided, his voice cool and she knew he was right.

Margaret mentally conceded that no one was ever quite what one believed them to be. She knew that with the same certainty that she knew night would follow day, yet she seemed unable to turn away from helping Anders, as if some primal part of her knew she had to help him, had to keep Vengeance at bay.

"No, he isn't. I thought to write to Anya and let her know about his – episode," she agreed quietly.

"She will, no doubt, wish to coddle him as well. I have witnessed such phenomena in perfectly sensible women and I confess I do not comprehend it."

Margaret's laughter burst from her uncontained and she leaned forward, hugging him fiercely. "Nor will you ever, I suspect. But accept that women have a need to provide aid to those most in need of it."

She felt him stiffen, felt the reluctance to acquiesce and found her laughter sliding into silence, her breath held. She didn't want to argue, but she wasn't going to be dissuaded and if he knew her half as well as she thought he did, he would know that.

"I will accept as long as these footmen are as stalwart as promised."

It wasn't until Fenris left, just as the sun whispered awake, that she wondered if she had done the right thing in bringing Anders back to the mansion and his rooms in the cellar. He had suffered a severe mental breakdown and his recovery wasn't complete, for all that he seemed much more stable.

Still, a quiet room, regular meals, and companionship could not go amiss, could they? The question entered unwillingly and then refused to leave. Margaret pushed aside the bedcovers and silently trod downstairs to the kitchen and the kettle that was always simmering on the stovetop.

Time would tell if his newfound peace was a mask or not.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Pain seemed to have replaced the blood in his veins, invading every part of his body, flowing through him in waves like the ocean lapping at the shore. He raised his head with a low, long growl and just as quickly lowered it with another grunt of pain. His arm was at an awkward angle but he seemed disinclined to move it. His insides felt as if they had all shifted into new and unhealthy positions and his skin felt raw and scrubbed of several layers. He closed his eyes and drifted off, aware in some part of him that someone needed his help but he was unable to do anything about it.

He blinked into consciousness again and couldn't remember where he was, or why he cared, or how he had come to be wherever it was. He blinked against the glare of light that stabbed at him, causing a throbbing ache behind his eyes, which felt swollen and bruised from the inside out. He was dimly aware of sounds that assaulted him, increasing the tempo of the throbbing in his head. He wondered why he hurt, but only briefly, as he recollected flying through the air and then skidding painfully on cobblestones.

"I think he's coming round. Do something, Flynne."

He recognized the voice and immediately associated it with a tall, rangy fellow with dark hair and green eyes, more boy than man, playful as a pup and the best warrior he'd ever seen. What was his name? Nathaniel tried to lick his dry lips and concentrate but neither action appealed to him and he sighed softly instead.

The pain that flowed through his blood was suddenly overpowered by a soft, soothing wave of healing and his eyes opened briefly. "Bloody hell, who kicked me?" he mumbled, aware suddenly that his ribs were broken so badly he couldn't breathe deeply.

"Not who, Nathaniel. What. A horse. A carriage horse, to be precise. Come on, take a whiff of this and sit up, would you," another familiar voice, the mage Warden…what was his name? Flint? Flynne? Yes, that was it. He wanted to shout at the mage to ease his pain but found his eyes slipping closed instead.

More noise invaded his dark, quiet peace and he frowned. "Pipe down!" he shouted in a hoarse whisper.

Horses and men and garbled cries and…his eyes flew open. "Where's Anya?" he barked, his voice low and rough, edged in ten kinds of pain and coming out in a croak.

"How is he?" a voice asked and he recognized it, as well as the red thatch of hair as the man bent over him.

"Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, more scrapes and bruises than there's room for on a human body, a mild concussion, I think, and that tall shaft sticking out of his hip? That's what we in Ferelden call an arrow," a bitingly sarcastic voice replied. Flynne, from the sound of it, Nathaniel thought in approval. "Where were you earlier?"

"Trying to avert this but, of course, Anya would deviate from the prescribed course, wouldn't she? If she had planned on leaving the city, she should have informed us."

"Anya?" Nathaniel growled against the pain as another wave of healing swept through him.

"Better tell him the truth," Raoul said quietly.

Nathaniel felt a deep dread infiltrate him, chasing away pain as it pooled in his gut. "Tell me what truth?" he asked, pushing Flynne's arms aside and struggling to sit up. The agony in his hip flared and burned and he jerked away from it just as Flynne gave it a pull. He let out a low howling hiss of pain that embarrassed him, but the embarrassment was fleeting as his concern leapt into its place.

"She's gone. Whoever was chasing us grabbed her as soon as the carriage overturned," Carver explained, an odd quiver in his voice. "I tried to stop them –" he began but broke off, an odd sighing cough strangling his speech. Nathaniel's eyes swung to meet Raoul's gaze, the man's eyes so like Anya's it hurt to look into them. His heart slammed into his bruised chest and he wanted to grab the men grouped around him and shake them all.

"What are you doing here then?" he demanded but Anya's brother shrugged briefly, settling a smile on his face that strove to be reassuring but was, instead, deeply concerned and just a bit frightened.

"There is nothing to do. The kidnappers will have gone to ground and we'll have to wait for their ransom demands. I suspect it is Rousel they want, but why is anyone's guess. We've held him too long for anyone to believe he's remained quiet."

Do nothing? Was he insane? The longer they waited, the greater the distance Anya was from them. Now was not the time to watch their damnable game unfold. Now was the time to show them how Fereldans eschewed the game.

"Get me a horse and tell me which way they went," Nathaniel demanded, cold and furious as he struggled to his feet. Carver reached out and gingerly assisted, wincing when a guttural moan was wrenched from Nathaniel.

"Flynne, another heal or two. Carver, bring me Raoul's mount."

"Stealing my mount and running off into unknown territory won't do anyone any good, friend. Best you follow my advice on this. I suspect the ransom note will arrive at my father's any time now."

Nathaniel rounded on him, reaching out to grab Anya's brother in a strangle hold, but found himself too unsteady on his feet to do more than cling to the man in order to stay upright.

"Come along, Nathaniel. Flynne can finish healing you once we're at the palace. We'll be laughing about this by dinner."

No, Nathaniel thought grimly, they would not. He found nothing funny about any of the posturing and caviling and game playing among the Orlesians. And while he wasn't sure what direction Anya had gone, returning with his tail between his legs was anathema to him.

"Nathaniel, you need to go back so I can finish healing you. There really isn't anything we can do here," Flynne urged, his voice flavored with authority and common sense.

"What? No! We need to find her!" Carver argued, taking up a stubborn stance. "Maker's arse, Flynne, how can you say we should leave her?"

"We don't know the countryside, we don't even know the city. How can we possibly find her without reinforcements, at least? And fresh horses? We go back, get Nathaniel back on his feet, pick up some guides and fresh horses and we're back within the hour."

Nathaniel was loath to admit he made sense but the thought of leaving Anya for one minute more in the hands of kidnappers sat like a leaden weight in his chest. He looked around at the concerned faces, at the unfamiliar city and the rolling green hills outside the gates and nodded once.

"Let's go," he said gruffly and dragged himself onto Raoul's mount, unconcerned with how Raoul would get back to the palace, his anger simmering dangerously close to the surface.

The ransom note arrived at the _Palais de Dirigeant _ahead of them.


	43. The Pain of Regret

**A/N: **_I apologize for the delay in posting. For some reason, Madame Muse took an unpaid holiday and it took her forever to return. For all those still hanging in there, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You can't begin to imagine how much your support means. _

**The Pain of Regret**

Pain twisted a path through Nathaniel as he wearily climbed the steps to the palace. Each step reminded him that he had somehow twisted his knee when he'd been flung off the carriage and it crossed his mind in a haze of pain and insight that Anya probably felt an even deeper ache every day, and in her hip as well, yet she didn't complain, never let it dampen her resolve in any way. Could he do less? His honor forbade him and he straightened his shoulders, stifling a grimace as he continued up the steps, focusing on a plan for her safe return that didn't rely on the machinations of the Grand Game.

A thin wisp of healing curled around him as he proceeded into the marble hallway and he waved a weary hand of thanks to Flynne, who was very nearly drained of mana from his efforts. He glanced briefly at the mage and then at Carver, who was white and grim, but already wearing the determined look of a young man who would do whatever was necessary for the safe return of his commander. Nathaniel felt a stir of pride for the men beside him. They'd get the job done, he had no doubt.

Enrique met the group and immediately handed a note to Nathaniel. With a quick, silent perusal, he nodded once and then read the note aloud in a remarkably steady voice. "We hold Anya Caron. Our demands are as follows: You will come to the _Pont des Douleurs_ at the hour of _Compline_ tomorrow evening. No more than three people will attend this meeting. Anya Caron will only be exchanged for the sorceress, Mirlyna. Enrique Caron must be present. These terms are not negotiable. Failure to comply will result in her death."

Silence fell, heavy with guilt and recriminations. There was a part of Nathaniel that wanted to see Enrique's head neatly piked for putting his own daughter at such risk. The futility of his anger didn't assuage it and for some moments, he stood furious and helpless. His hands curled into fists and it was all he could do not to pummel the older man. Silence stretched out between the people gathered in the small salon, a pained and painful tension coiling among them, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

Finally, Carver, his voice oddly flat and devoid of emotion, asked, "Where and when?"

"The _Pont des Douleurs_ is the Bridge of Sorrows, the most common site for these types of exchanges. Very difficult to hide troops in that area and yet there is very little traffic. The _Compline_ is the night prayer offered at the Grand Cathedral. It begins at nine bells each evening," Raoul answered quietly.

"Who is this sorceress the note mentions?"

Enrique and Raoul exchanged looks and Nathaniel watched the men as they determined what lie they would tell. He shook his head, angry and disgusted, before turning away. Lies wouldn't save Anya. How could they fail to understand that? Neither would anger, he reflected as another spell chased away the last vestiges of pain.

"Well, I'm going," the young Warden said without hesitation, before Enrique or Raoul could tell whatever lie they had decided on. Carver's belligerent pose would have been humorous under different circumstances, but Nathaniel was grateful enough for the interruption that he flashed a brief smile. Before he could say anything, Flynne spoke.

"No," the mage uttered with quiet authority, putting a steadying hand on Carver's arm. "No, Carver, you're not."

"We won't be among the three," Nathaniel agreed calmly. "As soon as this damned leg is tended, we'll be off."

"You will not find her," Raoul argued. "You are unfamiliar with the streets, with the language. You will do nothing but waste time."

"I was trained as a tracker," Nathaniel returned, pulling himself straight with a shudder of pain. "And I am a Warden. As is your sister, which will benefit us greatly."

"I don't understand what one has to do with the other."

Ignoring the confusion and doubt in the man's voice, Nathaniel nodded at Flynne and Carver, watching as comprehension grew in his fellow Wardens' eyes. He turned to Raoul and, voice brusque, said, "You don't need to understand, just supply three horses and a medical kit."

Raoul's gaze slid past Nathaniel to stare at his father, but Nathaniel waited for Flynne's wave of healing magic to wash over him, unwilling to waste more time arguing. He turned to leave but Raoul's hand grasped at his arm.

"Do as he commands, Raoul. I will not allow your sister to be used as a pawn. This has gone on long enough. That sorceress is a dangerous influence on Celene and long have you said as much. But it is wiser for her to be in our hands than in an enemy's."

The voice broke through Nathaniel's steely resolve and he flashed a look of surprise over his shoulder at the speaker. Raoul's hand slid away. Anya's mother, Giselle Caron, stood quietly, but resolutely, in the open doorway. "The sorceress came to us the same year the Blight ended in Ferelden, just a month after Anya left us. She is a powerful mage and more, she claims she is a daughter of Flemeth. She holds great sway among the court, especially the men," she added, a cold glare of contempt focused on Enrique, who looked away. "So bring back my daughter, Nathaniel, no matter the cost. Raoul, inform your father that should anything happen to Anya, vengeance will be visited upon him. I am not without resources."

A stricken look flashed across Raoul's features before they became still and frosty. "As you wish, _ma mère_."

With only a brief, cool nod, the woman turned and quietly left the room. Enrique, face drawn and aged, followed. Raoul stared after them for long moments before giving a brief shudder and turning his attention on Nathaniel, a question unspoken but apparent. Nathaniel, giving himself up to Flynne's spell again, didn't answer, wondering if Raoul understood the depths of his determination to save Anya and kill whoever had dared to take her.

Within moments a servant announced the arrival of their horses and Raoul followed them out to the waiting mounts. "A guard will lead you back to the site of the accident. From there you are on your own. If you are caught, there will be no ransom demands, Nathaniel, only death. Maker guide your steps."

"It's our tainted blood," Nathaniel explained, his voice low and calm. "We can sense darkspawn through the taint as well as our fellow Wardens. We'll find her," he reassured and mounted, pushing aside his own concern, and trying to ignore the weight in his heart where regret lived. He had lost her once, to Anders and the destruction he had wrought. He would not lose her again. Ever.

**~~~oOo~~~**

He was almost disappointed at how easily he stumbled upon the vial. Glancing around to make sure nobody was watching, he palmed it and then it was hidden in his pocket. When Margaret came up to him a few minutes later, he was whistling cheerfully.

"Hard work seems to agree with you," she commented, handing him the reed broom and smiling. "So I'll let you finish this room. What do you think they used it for?"

Anders shrugged casually. "Who knows with them? They weren't exactly forthcoming. Say, I'm hungry. Are you hungry? I swear I heard a bear growling but maybe it's just your stomach?"

He flashed another smile, watching her covertly through his lashes as she wiped her hands on her apron. A large smudge of dirt cut a swath across her face and her apron wore a multitude of colors, a testament to her hard work in helping clean the compound. He set the broom aside and, grabbing her by the shoulders, turned her around and began to untie her apron.

"Come along, Margaret, before Fenris flays me for keeping you out late," he said, holding the apron out to her. "Nothing worse than Fenris in a temper," he added, wiping his hands on his own apron before untying it and placing it over his shoulder.

He was surprised when she linked her arm through his, walking beside him as they had in the early days of their friendship, when he was edgy and depressed, so full of fear and regret that it oozed from his pores and she had somehow realized that a calming touch was all he needed to keep him grounded. They walked in companionable silence, Anders relieved by how easily old patterns reformed and habits long abandoned returned with ease.

Somehow, even knowing that his cheer was more frightening to Margaret than his depression, he felt remarkably light, as if his recent illness had burned away the dark, leaving his soul freshly scrubbed and more carefree. Of course, it wouldn't last, but for the moment, the old shame and guilt, the deep chasm of loneliness and remorse, were gone. Or so he hoped.

"Good evening, Messere Hawke! Dinner will be served as soon as you're ready," Bodahn greeted cheerfully, his eyes flickering to Anders. "Messere Anders," he added, his good-natured smile extending to him. Anders felt a moment's relief at being accepted back into the household so readily, as well as an anxiousness to go to his clinic's small laboratory to examine the small vial he'd palmed. And who would read the notes he'd found that seemed to be almost mathematical in their precision?

"Messere Fenris is waiting in the study and dinner will be served in thirty minutes," the dwarf said as he left, stout legs carrying him in the direction of the kitchen.

"I'll just go clean up," Anders said, forcing another smile to his lips. No doubt the new footmen were part of the terms that Fenris had set forth when he'd learned that Anders was moving back in.

**A cautious elf. I said, some time back, that he would be eliminated should he become a threat. I believe that may yet be necessary.**

_**Give over, Vengeance. The elf has done nothing but hire a few men to protect Margaret. They won't be a problem if I leave her alone, which I intend to do.**_

**You forget how well I know you, Anders. Your intentions, however noble, rarely come to fruition. Should you need her, you will not hesitate to use her and then you will be filled with the most consuming regret and remorse. You will beat your chest and shed tears, but you will do it again, should it prove necessary.**

Contempt stung him unexpectedly, contempt for who he was, who he had always been. It roiled in his gut, a physical malady that brought the bile rising, searing his throat as he made his way to his room. He retched into the porcelain basin on his washstand. His determination wavered and he collapsed on the bed, listening to the distant screams of his past, his vision focusing for long moments on the twisted form of Anya, her piteous cries dying weakly as he ran for the woods and freedom.

**Cease these images at once!**

"I can't," he whispered, allowing himself to curl up on the bed, willing himself to remember that she was alive and had moved on, was with Nathaniel and happy again. She didn't need him or want him, and he wouldn't trust her if she claimed otherwise. It was Justice's influence, he suspected. He slowly unfurled like a budding leaf caught in spring sunlight, his limbs stretching as he shook away the remorse and stood up again.

"Enough, Justice, it won't do you any good. I'm committed to this, without regret," Anders said into the quiet room, his voice reedy but gaining strength.

_Regret is all that you will have if you continue on this path._

Anders was prepared to ignore the words, but he found it nearly impossible to ignore the sorrow in the spirit's voice.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Surprised that they put her on the back of a horse and not in a closed coach, Anya had just enough time to ensure that the wound on her arm bled freely before her hands were bound in front of her and a hood placed over her head. A mental prayer shaped itself behind her closed lids, a hope that they wouldn't see the blood or understand its significance. She felt the horse lurch forward and she groped blindly for the pommel.

"Ride with her, you idiot," a voice commanded and she strained to hear it, to identify who her captors were, but she was too groggy from the accident. She ached, her head pulsing with a dull stab of pain with each breath she took. She willed her body to relax, knowing the ride would be painful enough, doubly so with tense muscles.

Taking another lunge forward, the horse was off and she could feel the hot breath of whoever shared her saddle, even through the cloth hood. She tried to match the horse's stride and not fight it, but it proved amazingly difficult without her sight as a reference. As they cantered along, she prayed her captors would not see the blood trail that she hoped she was leaving behind.

"You know who I am, I presume," she called casually, her voice strangely muffled by the material enveloping her head, sounding foreign in her ears and somehow unnerving her.

She shifted slightly, trying to hold her bound hands away from the pommel of the saddle even though she longed to cling to it, afraid she would fall. Not that she could, trapped as she was by the large man whose horse she was sharing. Her head was beginning to ache constantly and fuzzy lights were shimmering in her periphery. She wondered vaguely if she had opened her wound too much, if she was bleeding too freely, as the shimmering lights gave way to black.

Consciousness came back slowly, in fits and starts, and it was some moments before Anya managed to sit up. Light filtered into the dark room, pale streaks that fell across the floor like the bars of a cell. A window, set high in the wall and unreachable without assistance, allowed minimal light through its filthy panes, but Anya was grateful for even that faint light.

Dust motes floated in the air, which was rank with the smell of sweat and fear, as well as other scents she would rather not identify. She judged, by the light, that it was late afternoon. A moment's panic stirred, causing bile to rise in her throat at the thought of night falling. There was no telling what vermin would awaken with darkness, sharing her room with her. A shudder pressed its way resolutely down her spine.

She refused to groan, refused to acknowledge in any way, the pain that rippled through her when she moved to sit up. But she wanted to whimper at the stabbing sensation, as if her hip and leg bones had caught on some hinge and twisted themselves into a hopelessly locked position. The wound on her arm had been inexpertly bandaged and a dull ache centered in her forearm, a tightness that indicated healing plaster underneath the bandage, which indicated either no healer or an unwillingness to use magic on her. Were they afraid the templars would track them through a mage's healing spells? It seemed unlikely.

At least they had taken off the foul-smelling black woolen sack that had covered her head, she thought with a grim smile. She leaned her head against the wall, wondering if Nathaniel would be able to follow the trail of blood she had left. Or, she thought, her smile sliding into the shadows, had she managed to even leave a blood trail?

The door squealed in rusty protest as it swung open, grating along heightened nerves, and Anya's eyes automatically turned in that direction. A man in an ornately painted harlequin mask entered and she watched his approach through her lashes. He was tall and his long hair was pulled into a severe queue. Even with the mask he wore she knew him, had known him her entire life.

"I wondered when I would finally see you, Etienne."

"Silence! You will speak only to answer my questions and at no other time. Is that clear?"

Anya stubbornly refused to acknowledge him, turning away from him as if he was no more than a bothersome gnat. In her mind, even that was a step up for him. She had hated him for so many years, she couldn't fathom a time when she wouldn't. But once she had thought she loved him. The thought crept into her mind, twisting her other thoughts and robbing her of her willpower.

Fingers fisted in her hair and snapped her head back until her neck muscles protested their ill-treatment. Blue eyes blazed behind the mask and she could feel the man's anger radiating from him like the heat from a wildfire. A man, she suspected, near his breaking point. Fighting him would be extremely foolhardy she realized with an unexpected surge of fear.

"Is that clear?" he repeated in a hot, whispered breath.

Unable to nod because he grip had not slackened, she licked her suddenly dry lips. "Yes."

A man so near the breaking point could be counted on to be irrational, possibly even insane. Was there madness in his eyes? Certainly in his actions, taking her for ransom. Her father wouldn't stand for it. The might of the chevaliers would be brought to bear, or so she hoped. If she had any luck at all, Nathaniel would pick up her trail and bring an army to rescue her and put an end to Etienne's madness. But how had he come unhinged? He had always been cold and calculating and meticulous in how he played the game. What had happened to change that? Even as those questions sparked, she knew the answer, knew it down in her heart and soul where regret was unmasked and bared before her.

With a painful twist and snap, her jailor let go of her hair and stepped back, removing his mask and tucking it under his arm. His face, so familiar to her in her youth, now wore the lines and ravages of an unhappy and troubled life. There were dark circles under his eyes and grey threaded through his dark chestnut hair.

"What compelled you to come home, Annie?" he asked, his voice losing the angry edge, replaced with an ineffable sadness that was almost mournful in tone and cut through her like a well-honed knife.

"Cousin, you knew I would find the lure of such games irresistible," she responded, trying to keep her own voice light and faintly teasing, refusing to allow the pain to rise to the surface. Once upon a time such a voice had worked to soothe Etienne Villiers. Would it again? She had to try and reach him, push through the hardness that encased him. "But why are you working for that mongrel, de Chalons? He isn't even a cousin," she added with a huff of indignation, allowing a small part of her hurt to escape and wrap around her words.

"Celene is bringing ruin to our nation, as you would know had you remained at court."

"Truly? I had not noticed. Our dear Val Royeaux is looking as beautiful as a young debutante."

But that wasn't true, she knew that. Val Royeaux was more like an aging courtesan … carefully made up to look young and beautiful, but old and corrupt just beneath the surface and behind her mask. It broke her heart to realize how naïve she had been to come home and think she could escape the game, or those she had used before.

"Don't try to play me, Annie. It won't work this time."

Anya shrugged, hiding her fear and regret behind a casualness she didn't feel. "I didn't try to play you, Etienne. I am no good at the Grand Game, I never was."

His hand fell on her shoulder, hard and heavy, accusatory. "I disagree. You _were_ good at it, Annie. The best I've ever seen. You could be sitting on the throne, we both know that."

"You wanted that for me, you and Mama. I never did."

He bent over her then, his hand moving from her shoulder to capture her chin and raise it. Her eyes wanted to slide away, to search the deepening shadows for help, for forgiveness, but she forced herself to focus on the man in front of her. His eyes seemed to brim and spill over with regret and her unease churned inside her, making her feel queasy.

He wouldn't hurt her, he still cared too much, she saw that in the faint light in eyes that were as blue as summer skies. As blue as her own. Could she use that to her advantage? That she could even think such things made her queasier still, made her self-loathing leap to life and whisper insidiously in her head, recriminations growing in volume inside her like bees buzzing around a blossom until she was dizzy from it.

"How foolish of you to have run away. The moment you left, you lost the grandest game of all. And in so doing, you defiled yourself, Annie. That you allowed the Wardens to poison your blood before we could stop you was a desecration to your body. I wonder, did they poison your mind, as well?"

She twisted her chin away from his grasp, her playacting momentarily forgotten in a rush of regret, and it was the regret that formed her thoughts, her voice alive with the undercurrents of her past. "_You_ defiled me, Etienne, _you_ used me and you are the one who poisoned my mind, with your ambitions and stratagems, aided by my own mother. Don't think you hold such sway with me now."

A smile graced his lips and lit his blue eyes, a real smile that tickled at her nerves and awoke hope. She might be able to play the game if she was careful. The thought did not fill her with confidence; it made her head ache with disgust. She hadn't changed, not deep inside, apparently. Despair began to trickle into her as her self-loathing increased. She was no better than any of those she had tried to distance herself from. That knowledge brought the stinging rebuke of tears to the back of her throat. She willed them into to the recesses of her mind where Etienne couldn't see them.

"No, Anya, you knew the game and chose to play it. You wanted me because Celene toyed with me. I was something she wanted, so naturally you had to take me away, to exert your power. Don't pretend otherwise."

There was just enough truth in his words to whisper along her conscience and sting, tormenting little pinpricks of shame and regret. What a vain, foolish young woman she had been. Back in those days she had amassed almost as much power as Celene, had craved that heady rush that accompanied each conquest, each victory in the game, but for no longer a time than it took her to look in the mirror and see what she was becoming. That was the reason she had fled the court and a way of life that was so pervasive - so _persuasive_ - that she had nearly sold her soul and sanity to be a part of it.

Never again. She would not play one more minute of the game. Not even to save herself. And especially not to a man she had wronged every bit as much as he had wronged her. Somewhere, sometime, the game had to stop if Orlais ever hoped to achieve its full potential in the world. All pretense fell away and her shoulders squared.

"Tell me who you are exchanging me for and explain why your allegiance fled Celene's side," she instructed, sitting up and offering him a faint smile. "And let us stop playing this damnable game, Etienne. Let us cry friends, now, and forgive each other for the past."

He stared at her until her smile wavered and her earlier fear began to seep into her blood. Then his shoulders drooped and he sank down on his haunches, his smile grim. "I have hated you for so long I am not sure I can be a friend, Annie," he admitted, spreading his hands wide. He shook his head, struggling and then nodded briefly. She felt a smile come to her lips, small and quivering, hope once more fluttering in her chest.

"You spent the morning with Celene. How can it not be obvious to you why I have forsaken her?"

She took a deep breath and then another, sitting up straighter and leaning forward, hoping her voice captured the sincerity she felt.

"My audience was too short to tell which way the wind blew, but I admit that I am more than a little uneasy about her scheme to search for - and free - dragons in the mistaken belief they can be controlled. Who would tell her such a thing in such a way that she would believe it?"

"Ah, now you begin to see my reason for leaving. Only a madwoman would believe such a thing. Or someone who is no longer in control of her own thoughts."

His words were a cold wind blowing against her belief that Celene reigned over not only Orlais but her own life as well. She shivered as she heard the sorrow in his voice. He truly believed Celene was a threat to Orlais. Searching his face for any sign that he was playing with her, that he was lying, she saw only the truth and a grief as deep as any she had ever seen.

"There is a sorceress who attends her every day and I would call her a hedge mage, an apostate. She claims to be a daughter of Flemeth. She is prideful and powerful and sits at the right hand of Celene."

"I believe I saw her briefly. A beautiful creature with golden eyes and dark hair? Haughty and disdainful?"

"Yes. She calls herself Mirlyna but I discovered she is actually Morrigan, the mage who traveled with the Wardens in Ferelden during the Blight. However, she is, in truth, a daughter of Flemeth. She is the one who is determined to raise the dragons from their sleep. The question is why she should want to do such a thing."

"And de Chalons will stop her?" Anya asked, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice. "I was led to believe you were working with Anora Mac Tir in a convoluted plot to retake Ferelden," she added, watching as a flash of humor blazed in his eyes.

"Insults, Annie? And on two fronts? You used to have much more finesse. I see that you have grown clumsy since your precipitous departure from Orlais," he chided, a note of disappointment in his eyes. Was he playing? She blinked, unsure, waiting for him to continue.

"Anora Mac Tir is being used to further de Chalons agenda, not mine. She is a useful source of inside information, you see. Her knowledge of Ferelden, from politics to troop strength, is amazingly deep.

"As to the other matter, I believe he wants the sorceress for the same reason Celene does. However, he won't be at the exchange, I will. And I will have templars with me who will drain her and keep her drained long enough for me to ensure she cannot carry forth her plan at all."

Her breath caught and she leaned towards him. "Etienne, no! You know de Chalons trusts no one, not even you. His men will not allow this. You'll die before you have a chance to do anything to this mage."

"That doesn't mean I shouldn't try. Can you imagine what will happen if there are dragons in the old caves and they are awoken? Does this sorceress believe she can control such power? Does Celene? The devastation of even one dragon –" he stopped and shuddered. "I do what I have always done, Cousin. I fight for the good of Orlais. Once you would have done the same, _chérie_."

The old endearment struck her like a lance and, to her shame, tears filled her eyes. A scorching memory of dangerous liaisons and games played to the very edge of sanity overtook her thoughts, memories tumbling into her mind with abandon. He chuckled, reaching across the distance to wipe at her tears.

"Tears for me, sweet Annie? I am touched, truly," Etienne whispered and cleared his throat before continuing, his voice gaining strength. "But we both know that, having committed myself to the exchange, I must follow through or my life is forfeit."

She closed her eyes, trying to hold back the tears. Leaning her head back against the wall, she listened to her own heart beating as time slid away from her, back to her years at court when she had finally mastered the Grand Game. She felt Etienne's fingers chase her tears down her cheeks and opened her eyes to see a reflection of her own regret in his eyes.

"We are a pair, aren't we?" she said, her voice thick. She gave a sniff as he took out a handkerchief and wiped at her tears.

"That we are. Now, _mon chou_, let us put our heads together and discover a new game, eh?"

If only, she thought sadly, she could believe that he wasn't still playing the game. A wariness in his eyes was a reminder that he was, no doubt, contemplating the same thing. How could they trust each other when they had spent so much time hating each other? How could they not, given what she had learned?

"For Orlais," she whispered, hating herself for feeling the irresistible pull of her homeland.

"For freedom," Etienne corrected gravely.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew an iron key. In a moment she was unchained and he was helping her to her feet. "I trust you will tell me how you came to be injured," he said, rubbing life back into her wrist.

"Come back to Ferelden with me and I will," she answered, surprised to hear herself make such an offer.

A quick shake of his head gave her the answer she expected. "I cannot leave Orlais. Even had I the will, I would never be allowed to; de Chalons would never permit it."

"You would rather die?"

"Rather than have Orlais destroyed? You know the answer to that."

They sat on the floor facing each other, silent and wary. Anya remembered, with painfully vivid clarity, their last night together. "We played the game too well, didn't we?" she asked after several minutes.

"What else could we do? What else are we raised to do? We play the game or we are played. But if we do it for the right reasons, for Orlais and her people, it cannot be wrong."

Before she could respond the door was flung open and a guard, weapon drawn, yelled, "We are being attacked!" He ran out, his footsteps echoing in the hall.

It was only then that Anya felt the familiar prickling of her blood that told her Wardens were nearby and who they were. She tried to rise but her hip, cold and stiff, refused to support her and she clutched at Etienne for support. "Don't worry, Etienne, it's my Wardens. They won't hurt you," she reassured in a whisper as she slowly straightened.

She raised her voice to be heard over the sounds of close combat. "Nathaniel, I'm safe. Don't hurt the man with me!"

"Stay put, Anya! We're almost there!" Nathaniel called back, his voice deep and steady, calming her sudden rush of fear.

Her hold on Etienne loosened as she found her footing and she sent a quick smile up at her cousin. "We'll figure something out, Etienne. I won't disappoint you this time, you have my word on it," she vowed, squeezing his arm.

His eyes widened and he took a step forward, grabbing her arms. "Viva Orlais!" he shouted, shoving her.

She stumbled, clumsy in her shock, and fell heavily to the floor. Without another sound, Etienne fell beside her, an arrow protruding from his eye. The force of his fall snapped the arrow, pushing the tip deeper. Instinct took over; she rolled behind him, using his body as a shield, glancing over her shoulder at the open door even as her hands searched Etienne for a weapon. A heavily built guard, wearing a triumphant sneer, took several steps into the room.

"You were warned, Villiers," the man spat contemptuously and raised his bow, an arrow already notched.

Her eyes never leaving the man's face, her fingers continued their search for a weapon but, with a scream of pain, the mercenary lurched forward. Carver leapt into the room and as soon as he cleared the doorway raised his sword. The blade came down in a powerful, sweeping arc. With a bright spray of blood the guard's head disappeared.

Before she could quite comprehend what had happened, her Wardens were gathered around her and she was holding Etienne, weeping like a lost child.


	44. A Paradise Filled with Vipers

**A Paradise Filled with Vipers**

Watching her slowly regain control of her emotions, Nathaniel refrained from doing what he wanted, which was to gather her up in his arms and carry her out to the waiting horses, to get away from everything Orlesian for even a day. But he understood that she needed time alone to wrestle with her grief, so he ordered Carver and Flynne to keep watch outside for Raoul and his men then took up a position in the shadows, waiting as patiently as he could.

It wasn't easy. He found himself gripping the pommels of his daggers and clamping his jaws tightly while he watched in helpless frustration. His curiosity was chewing insatiably at his thoughts, and peace of mind, as he waited to talk to her. How had a man she'd held in such contempt, who had kidnapped her - and Maker knew what else - come to be held in her arms as her tears washed his sins away? There was a tender light in her eyes and she seemed so young and wistful at the moment that Nathaniel found it nearly impossible to remain silent.

How had he not known that there was more to the story? Would he always be in the dark about her past? He felt like an awkward, bungling child as he realized how little he knew about her, as if his powers of observation had failed him. He found he was grinding his teeth as he stood there, waiting for her to come to terms with her grief. He resented a dead man, for Maker's sake. He was disgusted with himself at the sharp stab of jealously he felt, and hurt far more than he should be by the look in her eyes as she held Etienne Villiers's body. Still, he waited with that patience that he had taught himself so many years ago.

Finally, she spoke. "Nathaniel," she said tenderly, looking at the shadows where he stood. It was all he needed, her voice seeping into him like water into parched soil, washing away the brief hard edges of his own pain.

He moved to kneel beside her and, as she gently laid her captor down on the ground, he placed his arms around her, pulling her close. "You took years off my life," he said gruffly, his arms tightening momentarily.

"I knew you would find me," she replied simply, her smile tremulous and for him alone, full of trust and hinting at apology.

"Your brother and his men will be here shortly. We need to get out of here before de Chalons figures out what happened. And your arm needs healing."

She blinked and narrowed her gaze until it was focused solely on him once more. "Are you all right?" she asked, reaching out to brush back a lock of his hair that had escaped his braid.

He closed his eyes, wanting to lean into her touch, to prolong the contact, but now was not the time to question her about what had really happened. With a concerted effort, he pushed up and then helped her stand. He could see from the way she stood that her hip and leg were causing her pain but he wouldn't shred her pride any more than it already was by carrying her out to the waiting horses, contenting himself with a strong arm around her waist as they stepped into the sunshine.

Flynne hastened forward, a series of playful _tsks_ emanating from him as he began to examine her. She rolled her eyes at Nathaniel as the mage fussed over her, and for a brief flash, she allowed her love to shine in her eyes before returning to her role as commander. In answer, Nathaniel allowed himself a brief grin before turning to Carver, more than ready to leave the premises and, now that he admitted it, the country.

He had seen, and lived with, treachery in many guises, but none to match the betrayals and duplicity found in Orlesian politics. He may have been beaten, both physically and verbally, by his father, but he would rather live that life over and over than have grown up within the imperial court. How had she survived? How had she managed to be so gracious and loving in the face of all the deceit and perfidy? How had she not succumbed to the bitterness of it? To the futility of not being able to trust anyone?

Horses riding into the courtyard broke his reverie. Glancing at Raoul, he knew with a certainty that Anya's brother had served in the same capacity that Delilah had for him. They had been the anchors, undoubtedly, and Nathaniel felt a slight easing of the tension that was building in him. Just as he had been Delilah's anchor in return, whenever was needed and without judgment or question. Just as Anya was Raoul's. He understood Raoul on a much deeper level, now that he understood the role he had played in Anya's life.

Raoul dismounted and moved with hurried grace to Anya's side. He took her in his arms, waving Flynne away as he studied his sister. Nathaniel moved closer, not to interrupt the reunion, but to see if his belief was correct. He had trusted Raoul almost from the beginning and now, seeing the loving concern in the man's expression, Nathaniel felt another knot of tension ease.

Anya reached for Nathaniel, her hand gripping his arm tightly, as if trying to instill calm in both of them. "I want to depart Orlais immediately after our visit with the Divine tomorrow, Nathaniel. I don't think I can stand another minute in this godless place."

"Anya!" Raoul cried out, as if stung by her words, disappointment coloring his expression.

"As you wish, Commander," Nathaniel replied, his relief very nearly a living entity. "With your permission I'll go to the harbormaster and book passage immediately."

She smiled up at him, her eyes livelier, as if the sunshine had restored her. "You will take half these men with you – oh, and Carver too. Now, I advise you to hurry since Celene will hear about our earlier departure and try to detain us. Maker, hear my prayer and do not allow her to move the Gala to this evening," she prayed, closing her eyes briefly.

His smile danced across his lips and departed. "If it pleases you, Commander, I'll take an escort."

"It does, dear Nathaniel, it truly does."

His heart beat just a bit faster at the tenderness in her voice. How had they managed to survive all the ambushes so far? He'd been sure within hours of their arrival they would have been at daggers drawn and their relationship nothing but cinders and ash. He wasn't about to question his good fortune. After a quick touch of fingers to her cheek he turned, called to Carver, and mounted, leaving Raoul to choose who else would accompany them.

The sooner they left Orlais, the happier he would be.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"This is intolerable!" Knight-Commander Meredith exclaimed, her anger radiating outward in an attempt to blast all those gathered around the table in Viscount Dumar's old office.

"It wouldn't be intolerable if your templars would show a bit of restraint!" Orsino replied with equal anger but more self-restraint.

Margaret knew from dealing with both that it was his very self-restraint that enraged the knight-commander. The combatants glared at each other and Margaret felt a creeping unease. The stench of mindless bigotry clung to the air like the smell of singed flesh. Her stomach lurched at the hopelessness of it all, and she fought the urge to rub her aching head, to tell them that neither of them spoke with the necessary intelligence and compassion to settle their differences.

Her own anger simmered like a well-watched pot that refused to boil over, no matter the amount of heat applied. And, in her honesty, she admitted that she was angriest with the grand cleric, who refused to arbitrate with any authority at all. Her placating, often condescending, remarks only infuriated Meredith. How could a woman in authority like being called a stubborn little girl in front of her arch nemesis? How could a man possibly feel as if he had any control in his life when he was patted like a naughty puppy and told to be still and obey?

Glancing at Seneschal Bran, she saw the same thoughts reflected in his look before it was hidden by his customary supercilious expression. He was in an unenviable position of being neither seneschal nor viscount, but someone desperate to maintain both his position and order in Kirkwall. The latter was becoming less and less likely as the templars and mages continued their fractious confrontations. Without Elthina stepping in and settling matters, the animosity could only grow. Margaret's frustration grew.

"I don't have time to sit here and argue with every rule I am obligated to enforce! If you mages wish to have less oversight, follow the rules!"

"Make your rules less rigid and tyrannical and we will be delighted to do so!"

"Do not break even the smallest, most harmless stricture and that will not be necessary!"

The circular reasoning by both First Enchanter Orsino and Knight-Commander Meredith was making Margaret ill. She finally stood and brought the meeting to an end. "We'll meet again next week, at which time I hope both of you have a comprehensive list of grievances to submit."

Meredith's pale face turned even more so, two bright spots of color sweeping into her cheeks, blue eyes narrowed. "I don't know who you think you are but you do not command me," she snarled at Margaret, standing up to lean across the table in an imposing manner.

Without apology, though she was surprised by her own temerity, Margaret met the woman's furious glare with what she hoped was a calm stare of her own, one that didn't show her fear or her own anger, both of which were turning her stomach into a quaking morass.

"You're right, Knight-Commander, I don't. But we all share a love for Kirkwall that should be stronger than any personal vendettas or grudges."

Meredith became rigid with outrage and she leaned even closer. "You jumped up little apostate! The only thing that keeps you from the Gallows is your letter of safe passage. Don't think for a minute that I can't have it revoked for the good of the – "

"Meredith! That will be all! Now be a good girl and return to the Gallows," Elthina broke in with a condescending smile.

An internal groan threatened to break Margaret's silence. How could the older woman not see that she was inciting Meredith to even greater heights of anger? She cast a worried glance at Bran, whose lips were tightly pressed together. It was obvious he felt as she did but it wasn't until the others had departed that his breath came hissing out of him.

"This will not end well," he proclaimed ponderously.

"Not with the appropriate help. Why hasn't a new viscount been appointed? Why haven't the nobles put forth any names?"

To his credit, the seneschal didn't roll his eyes or shake his head in disdain at what must have seemed a naïve question. Margaret realized that, somehow, she had earned his respect. While he still seemed a bit aloof and disdainful, he no longer showed her the contempt he had when she had first started working for the viscount.

"There is one sticking point, Lady Margaret. A rather large one," he added with a morose sigh. "Do you know what happened to the previous viscount?"

"Not really, no."

"Eliminated. By templars. You didn't really think that Marlowe Dumar was a bumbling idiot, did you? He was a man constrained by the templar's iron rule. Any name we put forth would only be rejected because Knight-Commander Meredith prefers to remain in control, without the titular head of the city, so to speak. And, lest you think yourself worthy of the job, let me assure you that is not the case. You are, if you will pardon my bluntness, an apostate mage of foreign nationality. Your mabari has a better chance at becoming viscount."

"Next you'll tell me that Fenris is more suited to the role," she said, striving to lighten the seneschal's mood. A flicker of amusement was quickly hidden by a cool nod of his head.

"The only reason you are walking the streets without templar escort is because Elthina, and by proxy, the Divine, endorsed your letter of safe passage. Give her any reason to reject it, Lady Margaret, and you will find yourself residing in the Gallows."

"If Elthina can't control her templars the obvious solution is to write to the Divine and explain the situation. Surely she wouldn't want Kirkwall to erupt into violence or descend into chaos simply because Elthina is too old to keep Meredith and Orsino in line."

Standing, she paced the room, ignoring Bran's grim expression. Finally, when he didn't speak, she stopped her pacing to glare at him. "Any comment would be appreciated," she said with an edge to her voice.

The room was shadowed as the sun began to slip beyond the horizon and a shiver crawled determinedly down her spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. She hated using the former viscount's office at all, but in particular at dusk when the shadows seemed to take on unsettling shapes and she could hear the faint rustle of voices long dead. In fact, she hated Viscount's Keep with its grim grey stone walls and splashes of red heraldry that seemed to drip off the walls like the blood of the vanquished.

"Come for dinner, Bran, and let's discuss what can be done," she invited, anxious to leave now that night was spreading across the sky.

"Thank you," he said simply, the hint of his omnipresent sorrow thickening his cultured voice.

As soon as they entered the Amell estate, she knew Anders wasn't at home. There was a restfulness - a warmth - in the great room with its crackling fire that was lacking when Anders was present and, though she wouldn't acknowledge it to others, she felt it deep inside her. The house was at peace when he wasn't there.

She was relieved for a number of reasons, one of which was that, with Anders gone, there was a chance that they could discuss how to handle Knight-Commander Meredith without rancor or impassioned speeches.

"Perfect. Pour us some wine, if you would, Seneschal Bran, while I have them set an extra place."

"Perhaps you should consider inviting Prince Vael, as well. He knows Elthina well enough to know how to approach her. It is apparent neither of us has any idea at all."

"That's not at all necessary," Sebastian said, stepping into the room with an embarrassed smile. "Fenris suggested I stay to dinner while we waited for you." Turning and bowing briefly, he added quietly, "An emissary from the Divine has arrived, in secret, and wishes a meeting tonight. A Sister Nightingale. I was sure you wouldn't mind, Margaret."

She looked over Sebastian's shoulder to see Fenris standing in the doorway, his face grave. He gave her a slight shrug and she knew he was concerned, that the meeting bothered him just as the thought of it bothered her. Why would an emissary want to speak to her when she had yet to speak of her concerns regarding the grand cleric?

A shiver prickled along her nape and down her spine, chasing away any calm she had felt earlier. She reached out a hand to Fenris, curling her fingers around his and hanging on as if he was her lifeline, steadied by his presence. Still, the question echoed in her mind like a child clamoring for attention.

What serpent had gone behind her back to speak about her to the Divine? And why would the Divine seek her out?

**~~~oOo~~~**

"I'm sorry, Poppet. I'm not sure whether you hated him or loved him still, but I can see your grief."

Anya, turning reluctantly from the small dot on the horizon that was Nathaniel, gave a tired shrug. "I'm not entirely sure, either. Perhaps a bit of both. I think, in the end, he acquitted himself bravely. I'll remember that instead of the mess he and I made of our past."

"Mother will not be happy. I think she still harbored hope that her daughter would become Empress Anya the Red."

An unhappy puff of laughter escaped Anya before she could recover her equanimity. "Nonsense, she told me she wanted me to be known as Empress Anya the Just."

"Just what?" Raoul teased and she was grateful to him, hugging his arm briefly before letting go and moving away.

She felt raw, exposed, as if someone had peeled back her skin and scraped her nerves. Every bit of the past she had run from had reared up to remind her that running never solved anything. She should have quashed all her mother's aspirations all those years ago, made a clean break from all of it, and told Nathaniel everything. Instead, she had allowed herself to naively believe that the past would be forgotten, allowed to molder in the darkest shadows where it belonged, not fester and grow into painful reminders of mistakes best put behind those most involved. She had thought she could bring Nathaniel to Orlais and show him the beauty of her country, temporarily forgetting the beast beneath the surface.

"Do you remember what Aunt Vivienne asked the day I left?" she asked softly, closing her eyes against the pain inflicted by that memory.

"_Why has the Maker created such paradise but filled it with such vipers?_" Raoul quoted quietly, coming to stand beside her as she looked out across the lush fields of rolling green grass and dancing wildflowers.

"He would have made Celene a good husband, they could have had a basket full of children and the succession would not be in such disarray and maybe, just maybe, the Game could have ended."

She realized her words were naïve, that she still was too optimistic, and sighed, disconsolate. That, she realized bitterly, was what had made her so good at the Game – that naiveté. Nobody had suspected her of subterfuge, of dissembling, of baiting and trading on her own optimism to accomplish what she'd wanted, what she'd believed was best for Orlais.

"Nathaniel doesn't know how close I came to the throne," she said, continuing to stare at the vista before her. Far in the distance she could see the pale towers of Chateau Elan rising up to meet the sky, wondering if old Comtesse du Barry was still alive.

"I suggest telling him before the fete tomorrow, Anya. Better to hear it from you than a bunch of acid-tongued old asps," her brother replied, his voice stern, but with an undercurrent of compassion flowing through it.

"I don't even know how to begin. Or where. There are times when I don't fully understand how it all came about, or who manipulated who, or why. Besides, I don't plan on attending the gala tomorrow. I plan on being on a ship bound for Ferelden or anywhere else that is _not _Orlais."

She moved slowly down the steps, taking them one at a time as her hip readjusted and became more limber. "Although, now I think on the matter, I would wish to speak with this Mirlyna or Morrigan or whatever name she chooses to call herself. The whole notion of dragon taming is absurd and I can't understand how Celene could believe it."

"Well, good luck with that, little sister. She has a way of not answering any questions, whether subtly put or not. She's a sly one, that creature, and I'd wager a fistful of sovereigns she is hiding her real reason for being here."

"Talk to Gerard Flaneur. Ask him why mixing dragons, darkspawn and Wardens is a bad idea. While you're at it, ask him why he is sitting in Celene's court, voting on matters that are no business of the Wardens. I know _I'm_ curious as to why I have such authority in Ferelden. I suspect it has to do with the dragons, in fact."

"The two aren't related, Madame Suspicion. Celene and Magnus had always planned to put Wardens in powerful positions, long before The Dragon Mage arrived," Raoul teased, a smile resting comfortably on his lips.

Anya frowned at his attempt at jollying her out of her mood. "The Dragon Mage, who served with the Wardens, who left them on the eve of battle, if the report is to be believed. And now she is here, inciting Empress Celene, the most powerful ruler in Thedas. There is more going on than even you understand, oh great wise one," she replied, pulling herself into the saddle and directing the horse into a walk.

Somehow, she had to determine what the real game was. She felt as if she was in a maze and the truth lie somewhere just beyond her ability to see. Every turn she took in trying to discover it led to a dead end or another series of mazes. As she rode beside her brother, she felt as if he had the map that would help, but he was unaware or unwilling to assist. The thought that her brother, the last Orlesian she trusted, could somehow be involved, weighed her down, as if a hand was gripping her chest and pushing.

She turned her eyes to the beauty of the surrounding countryside, trying to let go of such depressing thoughts, but she might as well have been staring at a blank wall. Paradise was full of vipers, more than even she had dreamed of and yet, in the end, Etienne had proven he was not a viper, merely a man caught in the machinations of better players.

Would that happen to her family? Not that Raoul would heed any warning she might give, too stubborn and too patriotic for his own good, just as she had once been. Some would say she still was too stubborn but her loyalty to Orlais had been slain, murdered by the game's best players, including her mother and father, who played the game against each other in a bitter, heartless battle over long-forgotten hurts, like spoiled children who were willfully destructive no matter the cost. Why had she not realized sooner that her father was just a mortal with clay feet and a rusted suit of armor?

Perhaps, in the end, that was true of the entire aristocracy of Orlais. She glanced over at her brother, riding in thoughtful silence beside her, wanting in that moment to protect him because she realized, in a clear burst of dazzling insight, that she had matured, that she understood far better than he did, just what the game cost them all. Of course, he would not listen to her; she was younger and female and was physically disabled now. And no matter how much he loved her, he would always see himself in the role of big brother, her protector. Yet, she knew she had to try.

The wind rose, wild and cool, as clouds scudded across the sky, temporarily hiding the sun. Anya shivered, bleak thoughts scudding across her mind. Somehow, she must convince her brother to take his family and leave Orlais before he lost himself entirely to the Game, or worse, lost his life to it. She didn't hold out much hope for her success.

**~~~oOo~~~**

As soon as Anders entered his room, he knew someone had been there. Nothing was out of place, nothing was missing, but there was a sense of things being shuffled that made his heart beat wildly in his chest. A pall hung over the room, dense and choking like smoke. Who had been there and what had they been looking for? Had they found it? Had they discovered his notes?

He unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt. The material felt cloying and dangerously tight against his throat as he moved around the room, searching. He checked his small chest, the little niche he'd carved out in the wall behind the only painting in the room, and in the armoire behind his older robes but found everything as it should be.

Someone had been there. He would stake his freedom on it. Someone who had carefully searched his room while he was away. Someone who was free to come and go as they pleased. But who? And what had they hoped to find? Or was the paranoia returning? He rubbed at his suddenly aching head.

**You know who was here**.

Did he? It was just as reasonable to assume that Sandal or Orana had entered his chamber to clean, or in search of him. Or Margaret, looking for the mortar and pestle he had borrowed. Why was Vengeance so anxious to blame Fenris? Not that he liked him, either, but that didn't mean Fenris was guilty of searching his room.

_**No, I don't. I don't know. I can only guess.**_

**Guess? You are a fool, Anders. A coward and a fool. Were you ever thus?**

_**You have to be right all the time, don't you? Even when you're wrong, you refuse to admit it, punishing me if I disagree. Well, Vengeance, I don't know who was here. **_

Anders moved away from the armoire, sinking on to a chair, knees drawn up as he rocked to and fro, trying not to listen to the insidious caress of the demon's voice. He felt helpless to block out the sound, helpless to fight against the growing pressure that Vengeance exerted. He struggled to maintain a calm but it stretched and seemed like a glove that didn't quite fit his hand; tight and constricting.

**Anders, do not play these foolish games. We knew the elf would present a problem sooner or later. It appears that the serpent has shown himself. The time to remove him has arrived**.

_Listen to the demon and you are truly lost, my old friend._

But it was too late. Anders knew it and so did Vengeance. Only Justice clung to the belief that Anders was strong enough to change course. That knowledge infuriated him, the heat of his anger scorching him.

_**Your words mean nothing, Justice. You don't have the power to touch me now!**_

_But I am compelled to continue trying, Anders. You cannot dictate otherwise, nor can Vengeance. As long as blood flows through your veins and your heart beats, I must try. I seek justice even if you have forgotten its meaning._

Anders closed his eyes against the thought, as if by closing his eyes he could vanquish Justice. Why, after months of silence, had the spirit returned? That question led to others, too many to find answers to. Alone in the dark, Anders drifted, his thoughts settling finally on one question: why was Vengeance so intent on killing Fenris? But another question flitted through his sleep-shrouded brain: why wasn't he concerned for Margaret and how she would feel about Fenris's death? Had he truly lost all humanity, after all? His stomach clenched and bile rose up, gagging him. He blinked tiredly, allowing the questions to fade into the shadows.

"I'll figure it out tomorrow," he mumbled wearily and closed his eyes. Within a few moments he was asleep.

**A/N:** _Thank you all for your continuing support, for reading and adding to your favorites, and especially for reviewing. _  
><em>There should be one more chapter in Orlais and then back to Ferelden. <em>


	45. Divine Illumination

**A/N: **_My apologies for taking so long to update. Sometimes the Fates conspire. Thank you to all of you who continue to follow along.  
>Huge thanks to my divine illumination: Oleander's One, my beta and friend. <em>

**Divine Illumination**

Anya sank into the hot water with a low moan of pleasure. Her muscles began to slowly unwind and stretch like a cat in a sunbeam and her head rested against the rim of the tub, eyes drifting shut. She felt boneless and somehow buoyant in the large tub as her body and mind began to uncoil.

Hearing Nathaniel enter the room, she held out a hand to him, her eyes still closed. She had an overwhelming need to touch him, to reassure herself that he was real and made of the same flesh and blood as she was. "Tell me a ship is leaving Val Royeaux on tomorrow night's tide," she murmured, her voice soft and drowsy.

A warm hand, calloused as only an archer's could be, wrapped around her fingers and she felt the brush of lips against her palm, sending a warm rush of desire through her. "The _Brizo_, of Rivaini registry, bound for Denerim with a stop in Cumberland. The next ship for Amaranthine departs in three days. According to the harbormaster we can always disembark in Cumberland and find a ship bound for Amaranthine."

With a long, low sigh escaping her, she settled more deeply in the tub, her once-aching muscles now purring in their new-found contentment. "Thank you, Nathaniel. Denerim will do nicely. I can dispatch my commission for the king and then we can take a leisurely trip up the coast to Amaranthine. Or hire horses. Just please, no coaches."

"No? That's disappointing, Anya. I had envisioned a private coach for us and one for Carver and Flynne."

"Oh, that does sound nice, as long as you can guarantee no wild coach rides."

She felt Nathaniel's warm breath rustle along her skin as he spoke and she shivered in anticipation. "I can't guarantee that, but I will guarantee that no one will be chasing us, Commander."

She chuckled, a slow flush of heat rising at his suggestive remark. "Why, Naughty Nate, shame on you," she teased around her broad smile.

A knock, loud and imperious, sent Anya up and out of the tub, clutching at Nathaniel for balance. His brief smile told her that he appreciated his position; and then he was reaching for a thick bath sheet, his expression still and watchful.

"There is only one person in all of Orlais who can knock with that amount of arrogance," she grumbled, pulling the long, damp braid out to hang down her back as she tied her wrapper into place.

"A moment, Mother!" she called, any earlier warmth overwhelmed by frost.

"I can stay," Nathaniel volunteered.

She was tempted by his offer, but it would be too easy to lean on him, to use his strength rather than her own, to come to rely on him rather than her own reserves. She kissed him lightly, thanked him, and sent him through the door hidden behind the tapestry, promising him an explanation later. With a deep, steadying breath, she made her way to her door and opened it to find her mother, face pale and eyes dark with emotion.

"What is it that couldn't wait until morning, Mother?"

Her voice was harsher than she'd intended, cold and wrapped in layers of suspicion and hurt, a decade or more in the making. Opening her door wider, she waved her arm in welcome. She affixed a smile to her lips, knowing it was stiff and unwelcoming. And as she stood there, she felt like a child again; a young, insecure girl who sought her mother's approval but never quite measured up.

She struggled now to let go of that feeling, to look at her mother as others must see her … the overreaching and often-neglected wife of the second most powerful person in Orlais. An unexpected rush of pity, of sorrow and fatigue, twisted Anya's smile, softening it, and her shoulders eased of their own accord.

"_Maman_," she whispered. As she stood there uncertainly the years fell away, stripping her of all of her pretenses and self-preserving facades. Years of anger and anguish dropped like tattered discards until she was just little Annie, struggling to find her place in the family, devastated at being left behind by her brother.

"_Ma belle fille_," her mother responded as she had all those years ago, and then Anya was enfolded into a surprisingly warm embrace.

Neither woman spoke for long moments, surprised into silence by the welling of affection. Anya wasn't sure she could speak, her throat tight and hot with unexpected emotions that she had spent so many years tamping down.

As if reading her thoughts, her mother stiffened, and then the masks they had donned for self-preservation fell back into place. Anya broke the contact first, stepping away and holding herself rigid, embarrassed and angry at the treachery of her emotions and heart.

"You are just in time to wish us good-night. We have to pack for our departure tomorrow."

"It is well you leave so soon. There are many who would wish you harm."

"Are you still one of them, Mother?" Anya asked, unable to prevent the iciness from creeping back into her voice; the wounds were still too deep. Perhaps they always would be. She stifled the sigh that rose in her throat.

"I never wished you harm, Anya."

"Didn't you? How surprising, given your disappointment in me, first over my refusal to marry whom you wished, and then my decision not to usurp the throne and marry my cousin."

A flash of anger lit her mother's face, briefly thawing the woman's frosty remoteness before the mask reseated itself. "You were ever one for dramatics, child. But let me assure you that what I did, I did to protect you from the manipulations of others."

Anya wanted to believe her, wanted to find comfort in the woman who stood before her like a marble statue, all cold angles and planes, carved and sharp-edged. She couldn't because the woman was not flesh and bone. She never had been.

She was the epitome of Orlesian aloofness and formality and treachery, any real emotion hidden behind an impenetrable veneer of freezing politeness and rigid manners. She was a stranger who had hidden whatever compassion she had ever possessed behind a wall of ice, allowing only rare, gossamer moments of warmth and tenderness to show.

"It doesn't matter. The deeds of the past are done, and I refuse, once again, to play these games. I will see the Divine Holy Light tomorrow and then I will return to Ferelden. I will do my utmost not to return to this country again, and if I have to, I will not stay in this tomb."

Anya was shocked to see her mother flinch at the vehemence in her tone. Contrition brought her hand up in supplication and pride quickly stilled it. But in that moment she saw her mother clearly, without subterfuge, and it staggered her to see years of pain flash in her mother's dark eyes. She saw a suffering she didn't understand and yet felt in her own heart at that moment, as if it was her own.

Every dream her mother had ever cherished had been thrown back in her face, Anya realized. In her whole life, Giselle Caron had not had one victory playing the Grand Game, and she had lost so much. Anya saw all of that in one illuminating breath, felt an ache in her chest, a knot of tears in her throat. How lonely and painful that must be; how fruitless and frustrating in so many ways, to lose so much, each loss taking a bit more to overcome. Even more so, she understood, because of her father, who had won with a precision that must have caused unendurable pain.

"Maman," she whispered, her hand, still hanging between them, moving now to touch her mother's cold cheek. Her mother moved away, her eyes narrowed and her lips set in a grim line.

"I do not need your pity, Anya, nor your consolation."

No, never that. How foolish of her to think a moment's clarity and honesty could overcome decades of hiding behind a façade. "You don't have either, Mother. But should you tire of these games, you'll always be welcome at Vigil's Keep."

A tiny nod, an infinitesimal relaxing of a stern mouth was all Anya received before her mother swept out of the room, the door clicking softly behind her. Only when she was alone again did Anya think to question why her mother had come to her room. She hated the suspicion that crowded into her thoughts as she pondered the reason for the visit.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Resolutionists? You used us as bait to bring this group out of hiding?" Margaret asked, her voice as cold as a winter's night. "Is this the way the Divine operates?" she demanded.

"Margaret, I'm sure she didn't mean to – surely you didn't mean to, Sister Nightingale? Really, Hawke, the Divine wouldn't do something like that," Sebastian said, rushing in to fill the silence as the redheaded woman silently stared at them.

Shaking his placating hand off her arm, Margaret took another step towards the woman. Now that she was closer she could see that the redhead, whom she had thought to be in her mid-twenties, was nearer forty than thirty, a fine webbing of lines around her mouth and bright blue eyes.

"I had to make sure that you were not working with them. I make no apology for that."

"Prince Vael's word wasn't enough?" Margaret ground out, unable to keep the tremor of anger from her voice. "A man dedicated to the Chantry, a _holy_ man. This says a great deal about the state of your organization."

"No, I am sorry to say, his word was not enough. There are things at work behind the scenes that I cannot speak about, yes? These mages and former templars were here to foment revolution and assassinate Grand Cleric Elthina. The Divine sent me to protect her and discover how deep the corruption is. We have no idea how many are still alive and who directs the Resolutionists. They are not harbingers of change; they are anarchists who have the potential for devastation, should we not winnow them out."

"Then why, for Maker's sake, didn't you keep them alive and interrogate them?" Margaret burst out furiously. "The hubris of the Chantry staggers me."

Sebastian, face pale in the candlelight, met her gaze and nodded in agreement, his misery at finding his Chantry in the wrong obvious. "I'm sorry, Margaret. I wouldn't have agreed to this meeting if I'd known what Sister Nightingale had in mind."

"Of course you wouldn't have, Seb, I don't doubt that. I do, however, doubt anything the Chantry or the Divine might have to say regarding the state of affairs here in Kirkwall."

They stood in a small, bare room in a ramshackle house in Lowtown. The coppery sweet smell of blood combined with the acrid bitterness of burned flesh permeating the room's stale air. Margaret felt ill, her stomach clenched as she refused to breathe deeply. Instead, she pushed past the other woman and stepped into the cool, starlit night.

"Your test of loyalty disgusts me. If your intent was to create some sort of trust between us, it failed miserably. Your arrogance is second only to Knight-Commander Meredith's. We need help in Kirkwall, not tests of fidelity," she said coldly and turned on her heel, her quick steps taking her towards home. "But it is apparent that no help will be forthcoming. Should the worst come to pass, Sister Nightingale, you will be at fault, you and your precious Chantry. Maker forgive your arrogance."

"Wait!" Sister Nightingale demanded, but Margaret heard uncertainty in her voice. She shook her head and continued on, ignoring the woman's command.

Margaret hadn't felt such strength of purpose since her mother had died. The anger coursing through her seemed to be a wildfire, burning away the layers of protection she had built up, bringing light to the darkest places in her. She willed it to continue its destructive course, feeling as if she was finally seeing clearly again. A wingless joy followed the path of the firestorm. She felt as though she was finally free of the horrible lassitude of guilt that had gripped her for so long. The euphoria made her feel invincible and as light as a leaf caught on the wind.

"Slow down!" Sebastian cried, and from the impatience in his voice she realized it was not the first time he had said something.

She stopped to let him catch up and it was only then that she realized Sister Nightingale was not in pursuit. "It would appear we are on our own," she said quietly.

"Sister Nightingale is a hand of the Divine. Surely she doesn't want a war between mages and templars. All of Thedas would become involved in such a conflict," Sebastian replied, his fear and disappointment evident in his furrowed brows.

She rested a calming hand on his arm. "Obviously there are greater problems within the hierarchy of the Chantry than those here in Kirkwall. If there are anarchists stirring up the circles …"

"Maker help us all," Sebastian said fervently, bowing his head.

They stood silently, the flickering light from the streetlamp casting long shadows across the granite walkway. She was surprised to find she was just blocks from home and couldn't remember climbing the stairs at all, but her lungs were straining to fill themselves.

"What a naïve fool I've been," her companion said, the fervency giving way to grief and shame. "I thought she came to help us, not use us. You might have been killed!" he added, his voice rising in indignation.

Her anger waning, Margaret put her arm through Sebastian's. "She came to test our resolve. If she found us lacking, she'd send more templars here to quell any problems, otherwise we're left to our own devices. The Resolutionists were a convenient excuse, I think. From the sound of it, they aren't a new group at all, but maybe they're becoming more powerful."

"She told me she was here to meet with you because she had learned you were the voice of reason between the mages and templars. She said Elthina needed the protection of the Divine in such turbulent times."

"I want to find out what Elthina and Meredith know about the Resolutionists, and I want to hear what Orsino knows about the state of his mages."

She glanced at Sebastian as they walked to the mansion. Even in the darkness of the star-studded night there was a new aura of determination that seemed to glow from him like a halo, but there was also a vulnerability in him that she found heartrending.

"We'll figure it out, Sebastian, don't worry," she added.

"Aye, Margaret, but at what cost? My faith has always been my touchstone. Without it, I – "

"There's no reason to lose your faith in the Maker, Sebastian. He hasn't betrayed you. It is the hubris of man that is the problem here, so it's up to us, as man, to find the solution before it's too late."

"And if it's already too late?"

"Then Maker help us all," she replied quietly.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Awed as she always was by the grandeur of the Cathedral, Anya stopped and allowed the voices of the Grand Choir of the Divine to wrap around her like the loving arms of a mother. It was said that the reason the voices could be heard in every part of the cathedral and the city had to do with the acoustics of the huge domed building. Four hundred voices strong, they chanted the word of the Maker every hour of every day of every month of every year, constantly and reverently. Every three hours, the entire choir was rotated out for a new one, never once losing the thread of the chant. Anya had often thought magic was involved in just how well the voices carried throughout the city of Val Royeaux; it seemed an impossible feat otherwise, although as a child she remembered believing it to be the divine hand of the Maker.

The choir loft was above the high altar and holy brazier, tiered and elevated until it seemed to hang, hovering like the hosts of the Beyond, above the presbytery below. Rows and rows of pews, polished to a high gloss, stretched from the west entrance through the nave to the holy brazier, waiting for the masses, welcoming in their high sheen. Even a whisper, it was rumored, could reach the Maker's ear if one stood in the crossing, underneath the largest of the domes, to pray.

Arched stained glass windows, depicting the life and martyrdom of the holiest of brides, marched along the north and south walls. Divine, multi-colored light streamed in to brighten the darker recesses of the massive structure, dazzling in its radiant beauty. In between the windows were gold dipped statuary of those who were important in Andraste's life from her mother to Hessarian. Behind the high altar was a relief of the adoration of Andraste, jewels and gold winking in opulent splendor.

A massive stained glass window in the chapel of the cathedral depicted the love of the Maker, his gaze once more upon his children. It overshadowed the other stained glass in its splendor and Anya stopped, transfixed by its unearthly beauty. The Light of the Maker, the greatest piece of artwork in the Grand Cathedral, was about to put on a show and Anya felt that odd stirring inside her that made her almost believe in the holy divinity. Her conversation with Anders all that time ago echoed in her head, only to fall into silence as Nathaniel came to stand beside her, his hand light on her arm, silent in the presence of such grace.

"Maker," Carver whispered, whistling his approval and awe. The word echoed softly in the vast chamber, to die in soft agreement.

"If you think that's something, wait for a few moments," Anya whispered.

The four of them were soon surrounded by a diverse group of people from the poorest laborer to the wealthiest merchants and highest placed noblemen. A hush spread through the crowd as the light began to pierce the window's stained glass. Soon the entire altar was bathed in an ethereal golden light that spread out to embrace the entire cathedral, bathing everyone and everything in pale gold. Anya could almost feel the peace spread through the crowd as well, and for a breathless moment each person was merely a humble servant of the Divine Maker, as the voices of the choir continued their holy chant.

Within minutes, the phenomenon passed, leaving a reverential silence behind. Gradually the spell wore off and everyone began to move again. "The Light of the Maker," she explained, pointing to the window. "Once a day, the light is refracted through the window to illuminate the entire cathedral. The faithful come from all over Thedas to see it."

Without waiting for a response, she started towards the sacristy and the Divine's secretary. "She is waiting for you in the cloister, Commander," the secretary said, her face carefully devoid of expression. "That's through the garden and to the left, through the chapter house. You will need to leave your weapons here, of course, and I'll have to drain your mana," she added without a hint of apology as she looked at Flynne.

"Or you can stay here, Flynne. I won't ask you to be drained again."

Flynne's face creased into a cheerful smile. "I'll stay here, thanks. I don't mind being drained, really, it's the headache when it rushes back that I hate."

"I'll stay with him," Carver offered. "I'm shit when it comes to being around important people."

A slow blush crept into his cheeks as he realized what he'd said and Flynne chuckled. "I think you've proved your point quite well, lad," he teased.

Anya removed her weapons and waited as Nathaniel did the same. She hoped he didn't retain even a small knife tucked in an inconspicuous place because she was sure they would be searched before they were allowed in to see the Divine. He flashed a reassuring smile and she exhaled.

An armed escort of four, dressed in the heavy ornamental armor of the Knights Divine, suddenly appeared out of the shadows and Anya assumed there were more still lurking, alert to any hint of danger. These were the templars whose duty it was to guard the Divine and they were dedicated to keeping her safe at all costs, Anya knew. The golden-limned armor with celestial blue enameling gleamed even in the dim recesses of the sacristy.

"You two behave," she admonished Flynne and Carver and turned to follow the guards.

The gardens were lush with blooms, heady with the musky fragrance of roses opening up to the warmth of the sun's blessing. She breathed deeply, sure she could smell the rosemary and elfroot growing in the herb gardens. A beautiful bird with iridescent blue-black wings and large, watchful golden eyes perched on the rim of a fountain. The burbling of the water, the lazy hum of bees and sweet song of birds seemed to welcome them. Anya felt a sense of peace and purpose come over her and she clasped Nathaniel's hand, meshing her fingers with his. Even knowing it was all carefully constructed to put visitors at ease, Anya couldn't help but feel rested and calm.

Was it something in the air? Some soporific agent released in the fountain? An herb designed to put one in a somnambulant state? Or was it just a beautiful respite from a hectic and often chaotic world? Anya's hand tightened in Nathaniel's and he returned the pressure.

The bird rose suddenly, its wings gracefully unfurling. Anya's heart slammed into her chest and her breath quickened, startled by the unexpected movement. The blackbird hovered momentarily, wings beating the air, stirring the hair on Anya's arms. The strangely calming spell was broken and, with a tip of wings, the bird soared into the blue sky and disappeared.

Anya was clearheaded and alert as they entered the cloister and were shown into a large, heavily-paneled room. The paneling gleamed in the sunlight that streamed through the tall windows. Several groups of chairs and tables were placed around the room and tall bookshelves filled one wall. A half-dozen women, each dressed in the colorful habit of the Divine Household, stood in a semi-circle around a raised dais, where an ornately carved chair, trimmed in gilt and upholstered in deep red damask held sway over the room. Upon it sat Her Holiness the Divine, Justinia the Fifth, the Voice of the Maker. She wore the bright golden yellow habit and wimple of her office, with the calm, beatific smile that told Anya the woman believed in her divine right.

"Come closer, child," the woman invited in warm tones and Anya was surprised by how young the Divine appeared. She had expected an ancient, wizened woman, bent and stooped by years of devotion to the Maker, not this proud middle-aged woman who sat straight and tall as she beckoned Anya forward.

Anya stepped closer, dropping into a curtsy that pulled at her hip and made it ache. To his credit, Nathaniel didn't move to assist her and she was grateful as she limped towards the woman in the golden chair. He bowed low, as graceful and lithe as always.

"Anya Marie Kordillus Drakon Caron, have you come as a Grey Warden?" Justinia the Fifth asked, her voice low and musical.

Anya could almost feel Nathaniel's curiosity as he heard her full name for the first time. She knew at some point he would tease her about it, and she wouldn't blame him. She wasn't the only cousin whose name included that of the founder of the Orlesian Empire. She could feel the embarrassment creep into her cheeks and willed it away.

"I come on behalf of King Alistair the First of Ferelden, Your Holiness, who sends his humble and devout greetings."

"Come closer, young one," the Divine invited, her smile warm. "Clothilde, Urbania, bring chairs for our guests."

Silence fell as two of the women went to do the Divine's bidding. Anya felt awkward, standing silently, hands clasped in front of her like a wayward child. She lowered her eyelids and surreptitiously glanced at Nathaniel, whose face was devoid of any expression. She found that reassuring and raised her eyes in time to see a look exchanged between the Divine and a woman entering the room with graceful strides. She wore the dark leather armor of a Seeker.

"Ah, Seeker Cassandra, you are back sooner than I had hoped. The Maker's will, no doubt. Come and meet Anya Caron, Commander of the Grey of Ferelden and her subaltern …" Her voice trailed off and she turned her gentle smile on Nathaniel, who bowed again.

"Nathaniel Howe, Your Holiness."

"Nathaniel Howe. Howe? This name seems familiar to me but I cannot place it. Ah, it is of no matter. Please, be seated. Agnes, bring in the tea tray. The rest of you go and enjoy the sunshine while we are graced with it."

Anya sat down and accepted a plate of sweetbreads and a cup of tea. She felt the strain of idleness weighing on her but tried to keep her smile polite. "You come on behalf of King Alistair so you must wish to speak of Sister Anora?"

At those words, Anya felt her heart sink. "She is a sister of the Chantry?" she asked, her voice betraying neither her surprise nor her disappointment.

"An honorific only, my dear. Her old designation no longer seemed appropriate, yet we cannot allow political refugees to hide behind the walls of our Chantries, can we?"

Now that her disappointment had abated, Anya felt the first coil of anger, but she tamped it down to reply, as casually as she could, "No, Your Holiness, you cannot, lest your Chantries become filled with such people."

"Exactly so, child. Now, you must speak honestly and without fear, Anya Caron. What is the purpose of your visit?"

"King Alistair has become aware of certain seditious activities in Ferelden that can be directly linked to the former queen, Your Holiness. He wishes to bring Anora Mac Tir Theirin to Ferelden to stand trial for these crimes against Ferelden and its people."

The Divine, Justinia the Fifth, allowed only a hint of surprise to show on her face before it folded back into serene lines. "Such a grave charge. You have brought proof of this with you?"

"Other than my word as a Grey Warden and the solemn oath of the king, I do not."

"My child, I do not dispute your words, but you must understand that this woman is under my protection. If I do not live up to the promise of such protection, how will the devout maintain their faith in the Chantry and the Divine?"

Well that was circular logic, or at the very least, contradictory and counter to her earlier statement. Anya set her cup and plate on the small table that had appeared between the two chairs, struggling to find words that were neither inflammatory nor capitulatory. "And what proof would you seek, Your Serene Eminence?"

The Divine, her hands steepled and her head bowed, spoke softly, but not without a certain cunning, Anya noted. "Perhaps you might tell me a bit about these activities and who might be assisting the woman who sought sanctuary within our walls. Such behavior as you suggest would necessitate help from within, which would reflect poorly upon us."

"She and Gaspard de Chalons are working in concert to overthrow the current government of Orlais and then invade Ferelden, where Anora Mac Tir Theirin will take the throne as a puppet for de Chalons."

"Please explain how you know this."

For the next twenty minutes, Anya related what had taken place in Ferelden and Orlais, about the attack on the road to Denerim, the seditious pamphlets appearing throughout Ferelden, the political rise of certain Grey Wardens, the connection of _Le Pacte des Loups,_ Rousel and the attempted abduction in Kirkwall, Raimond de Luc's defection to de Chalons, her abduction, and Etienne's death at the hands of his own men when he refused to kill her.

Finally, her throat raw, she trailed off, knowing that her story sounded so improbable as to be unbelievable. She'd left out her father's role as the head of the Brotherhood of the Wolf, Celene's odd attachment to the beautiful sorceress at court and her belief that they could find dragons, so she was surprised by the Divine's words.

"And do you think Celene hunts dragons so that she may use them as a weapon against her own people?"

Anya fought the urge to look at Nathaniel, to allow her surprise to show in any way. She affixed a polite smile on her face and gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, hoping she portrayed a casualness of manner she didn't feel. "I am afraid I am not privy to Celene's thoughts on the matter, Your Holiness."

"You have painted a very grim picture of what may, or may not, transpire between Orlais and Ferelden, but have presented no proof, other than your word, and that of your fellow Warden. Have you a direct connection between these pamphlets you mentioned and the former queen of Ferelden? Have you witnesses who will testify that they saw meetings between Gaspard de Chalons and Sister Anora? I believe that you believe your words, Commander, but if the Chantry is seen to hand over its members without sufficient cause, our credibility is suspect, yes? This I cannot allow."

Frustration grew into a hard knot in her chest and she gripped her hands tightly together, striving to remain calm. "I understand, Your Holiness. I would ask that your Seekers investigate the matter, however."

The Divine, Justinia the Fifth, frowned. "There are larger concerns than a war between Orlais and Ferelden, I fear."

Anya raised her brow, aware suddenly of the absolute stillness in the room, as if the whole of the Grand Cathedral and beyond held its breath. She realized then that she couldn't hear the Grand Choir of the Divine, or any other noise beyond the sounds in the room. Whatever they said in this room did, in fact, stay in the room.

"I do not presume to argue the point, Your Holiness, but a war between Orlais and Ferelden could destabilize all of Thedas. Or, should Orlais defeat Ferelden, who is to say they will stop there? In all likelihood they will defeat Ferelden, which is still trying to recover from the Blight. Will the Chantry stand quiet then?"

"My dear child, what I tell you now must remain between us. Have I your word?"

Anya nodded, unable to speak around her heart, which seemed to have become lodged in her throat. Again, she wanted to seek comfort from Nathaniel, but remained still, waiting for the Divine to speak again.

"We stand on the precipice of change, Anya, a change we do not desire but one we seem unable to prevent. All our resources must be centered on the coming conflict between the mages and templars. If the mages rise up en masse, no power in Thedas will be able to stop them. This is the war we must fight, Commander."

"Open rebellion by the mages?" Anya asked, her voice thinned by shock.

"So it would seem. But again, I remind you that this information must not leave this room."

"Of course, Your Holiness. But why tell me?"

"You must warn King Alistair to prepare for such an eventuality as I seek to warn all those of faith."

The words hung heavily in the room, like a lingering odor. Which leaders wasn't she telling? Anya's thoughts twisted and turned, elusive and migratory. She looked at Nathaniel and then away, her eyes resting on a gilt and jewel-encrusted statue of Andraste as a young woman, finding no solace there.

Was this why Celene was looking for dragons? Did she know that a war between mages and templars was imminent? Was it as dire as the Divine's voice proclaimed? How much could she trust the woman before her, who had once been a bard? Could dragons defeat mages? If _any_ dragon was subjected to the darkspawn taint would it rise up as an Archdemon? Her head began to ache from the ramifications and unanswered questions pounding at her brain.

"Bring me proof of Anora's guilt in the matter of Ferelden and I will remand her into King Alistair's custody. But do not wait too long, for change is coming, child, and we cannot stop it; we can only hope to shape that change."

With that, the Divine rose and Seeker Cassandra stepped out of the shadows, her face strangely calm. "I will show you out," she said, her voice without inflection.

Anya knelt and received Andraste's blessing and then she took Nathaniel's arm, her fingertips resting lightly as if she was not in the least concerned by what the Divine had told her.

Hours later, they boarded a ship for Denerim and Anya wondered if she would ever return to Orlais again. A shiver of dread traced the path of her spine and tears formed, warm and salty as they fell.

On the docks, standing proud and alone, was a tall, raven-haired woman with golden eyes. Anya was unable to look away from the woman's penetrating stare. The ship moved into the channel that would lead to the sea and still Anya stared at the woman on the dock until she became a speck and then was lost in the gloom of dusk.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Justice missed Commander Anya and their philosophical discussions on the nature of man and spirit. He missed the music of lyrium in the Fade, restful in its grand precision. He missed the certainty of his life as a spirit, when he did nothing but protect the innocent, those unable to protect themselves.

This aimless wandering in the dark as he tried to avoid extinction was wearing on him and he knew it was only a matter of time before he was completely subsumed again. This time he wouldn't have the strength to fight for his survival and part of him thought that might be the best solution. He couldn't help wondering if he would simply cease to exist or if his spirit would return to the Fade. Either way, the aching emptiness inside him would cease.

Would he find peace in extinction? Or would he wander the darkness forever? His mind turned away from such thoughts and he continued his quiet wandering, straining to hear the symphony of the Fade.

With blinding clarity, it came to him that he could not cease to exist as long as Anders lived. Only in death would they both be free.


	46. The Pull of Distant Tides

**A/N: **_Thank you, Oleander's One, for another thorough and insightful beta. You are wunderbar and a wunderkind and all things wonderful. Thank you to all those who are still reading and reviewing and following along.  
>Zevgirl, as requested!<em>

**The Pull of Distant Tides**

The sun hesitated, a piercing golden light that was reluctant to give up its place in the dusky violet sky. Anya watched the fireball sending out shafts of light as it sank slowly, inexorably in the west. Would there be a green flash? It seemed as if years untold had passed since she'd shared that fable with Nathaniel on the ramparts of Vigil's Keep, and in doing so had finally begun to heal. With a start, she realized it had been far longer than she cared to admit. Time had sped by too quickly and she felt a keen awareness of her mortality as she stood at the rail, looking behind her at the disappearing shore.

Closing her eyes, she took stock of herself and realized with a grim smile that everything ached, from her hip to her heart to her head. As she stood on the deck, gripping the rail and watching Val Royeaux fade into the deepening dusk, she wondered if she would ever willingly travel to Orlais again. As much as she tried to discourage them, thoughts of her old life and her family wormed their way in relentlessly.

The visit had put to rest any dreams she might have cherished about returning to live there one day. It wasn't home - hadn't been in years - no matter that it was the country of her youth. "And grateful am I to leave it behind me," she whispered, turning her back on the darkening sea.

Nathaniel came on deck as she did so, moving with the sinuous grace of a wild cat stalking its prey. His austerely handsome face wore a faint smile hidden behind a look of careful disinterest. He didn't want to overwhelm her with solicitude, she could tell by his very casualness. Her heart lurched in her chest and swelled as she watched his approach, her love almost painful in its intensity. She reached out a hand to him and he took it in his, squeezing gently.

"Families are never quite as we remember them," he said, his voice roughened by emotion. Who knew better than he did just how false memories of family were, or how treacherous a parent could be? Grateful for his quiet, stoic strength, she brought his hand up and kissed it before settling back against the ship's sturdy rail. He placed his hands lightly on her waist, his smile dark and seductive in the waning light.

"No, but then I imagine they can say the same of me," she answered and felt a smile pull reluctantly at her lips. "I think Papa is horrified that I left without a full complement of men. As if they proved to be of any use at all. And Mama is equally horrified that we did not stay and speak wedding vows in front of all her noble friends."

Nathaniel's fingers played with the buckle at her waist and he leaned closer, his whisper ghosting along the sensitive skin of her jaw, just below her ear. "We can still have the wedding there. It's not too late to jump ship and swim for shore. I have rather fond memories of the two of us in the Waking Sea."

Desire shivered through her and she, too, leaned closer, allowing herself to soften into his embrace. "Thank you, but I am looking forward to the expression on Varel's face when I ask him to give the bride away."

Her hair was ruffled by his quiet laughter. "I think we'd better keep a healer on hand just in case his heart gives out. Sigrun's too, although I'm sure she'll be more than happy to have you back home."

Home. It seemed such a small word to provoke such a rush of emotions in her, the warmth of it slowly pushing aside the coldness of her earlier, unhappy thoughts. "Hopefully we can get in, see the king, and get out of Denerim before anyone else knows we've even landed in Ferelden."

A flutter of breath at her temple sent an answering ripple through her blood. When Nathaniel spoke his voice was like raw silk against her skin. "We have a week alone. Must we think of family or duty the entire trip?"

She knew she should use the time to settle her thoughts and work through the strange threads that seemed to be trying to weave themselves into a large and ornate tapestry, but with Nathaniel's warm breath on her skin, she let those thoughts drift away on the calming seas. A warm wind, light as down, brushed along her suddenly heated skin as they made their way to their cabin.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anders stood on the rocky promontory, gazing at the pearl grey of the sky that was mirrored by the sea below. He thought a storm must be gathering somewhere in the dark distance; the sea was preternaturally calm, the breaking waves small and hushed. He bent and picked another clump of sea-oats and stuffed it in his bag.

**I have considered the matter. We must put all the materials together in one bomb. The explosion will be enough to destroy the Gallows.**

Shivering, Anders turned his gaze from the sea and carefully made his way back to his camp, building the fire until it stood as a beacon against the gloom of the encroaching night. A bird called in the distance, a melancholy note in its whistle, and Anders felt the isolation acutely in that moment. He spoke aloud, hoping his voice would pierce his rising depression and the deep ache of loneliness that pulled at him.

"We decided that destroying the Gallows would kill too many mages, Vengeance. The symbolism of destroying the Chantry will be enough to provoke an outright war. By then the Underground will have everything in place for a mutiny. We have a better chance of winning if we fight on familiar ground alongside other mages. Kill them and we gain nothing."

**The templars need to be annihilated. That cannot be accomplished without a significantly larger explosion. We must triple the ingredients, it is the only way.**

"That's ridiculous. I wouldn't be able to carry the thing to the Chantry, at least not without the whole of Kirkwall seeing me. No, no. We need to make a series of smaller bombs and place them strategically throughout the chantry. It'll take some time to set the explosives, but there won't be anyone left afterwards. Much better all the way around, I think."

He reached into his pack and pulled out a hunk of bread, baked fresh that morning, and began to eat as he stood by the campfire. Memories crept in then, memories of tramping around Ferelden with Anya and his Grey Warden comrades, stopping each night and gathering around the campfire to laugh and share thoughts and stories. Maker, it seemed a lifetime ago. He could scarcely see himself in the shadow of his memories, he had changed so much. To the Void with who he used to be, weak and easily swayed, full of selfish desires and foolish dreams. He tossed the bread into the fire.

"We'll get the job done with smaller explosions, don't worry. I'll just need a bit of help and Margaret seems willing enough, provided she doesn't know the exact nature of it."

**If that is your intention, you will need time inside the building to determine where to place them for the maximum damage.**

"Right, thank you, isn't that what I just said?"

Anders cried out at the sudden white-hot pain that slammed into his head, his eyes bulging from the force of it. His knees felt as if they had turned to water and he sank onto the sand, grabbing his head and trying not to cry out, but to no avail. A high, piercing wail rose and then fell away when the pain stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

**You forget yourself, Anders. You are a vessel, nothing more. Do not forget again.**

Anders compressed his lips, holding back the angry words, trying to let his mind go blank and dark and quiet. No good would come from speaking against Vengeance. He rose unsteadily and stumbled to his bedroll, sinking onto it gratefully. His mind whispered softly, soothing the memory of pain and he closed his eyes, drifting into sleep.

**You pamper him, Justice. I am appalled.**

_You seek to destroy him. I will attend him as long as I am able._

**Foolish spirit, you have so little power. You cannot prevent the future**.

_I will do my utmost to protect as many as I can from your future_. _Are you not concerned that you have had to resort to torture once again? Perhaps you are not as strong as you believe._

**Such an ineffectual spirit, Justice. I should be quite ashamed were I as weak as you. Away with you.**

Silence settled except for the calming sound of waves striking the shore. Justice struggled to remain a part of Anders but each day it became more difficult and he wondered how long before he had no sway against the encroaching shadows, no power at all against Vengeance. Did Anders even understand that Vengeance was the darkest part of himself? That it wasn't Justice who had called forth the demonic influence, but Anders's own twisted mind?

Regret and remorse dragged at his thoughts, slowing them down, and he wondered if it would be possible to talk Margaret into contacting Anya. Surely Anya could stop Anders? But how? How could he, as weakened as he was, be heard over Anders's own need for vengeance? How could he convey the urgent necessity of such a meeting? It seemed hopeless and even foolish to drag Anya into danger. She had no reason to believe in him at all.

Memory filtered past the black barriers and Justice reached for it, tentative and unnerved at the flare of imagery. Once, he and Anya had spoken for hours, her patience in answering his questions and explaining the nuances of human memory, illustrating what he came to think of as the sweetness of her presence. She had tried to explain the emotions that he was feeling, new and exciting and frightening even as subdued as they were by Kristoff's death, yet still in evidence, like faint fingerprints in the dustiest recesses of his brain, of Kristoff's brain.

He had wondered at the time what emotions would be like if experienced in a living host and had finally admitted as much to Anya. She had been quick and certain in her response, her voice and expression grave and determined.

"_You have no way to understand them, no frame of reference, Justice. You would probably be overwhelmed by them. Perhaps experiencing these shadows of emotions and feelings is the safest way to discover what it is to be human."_

But he had been compelled to try to become as human as anyone … as human as her. The idea of love had been in those dusty layers of emotions left behind in Kristoff, diminished but not extinguished by his death. He, Justice, loved her, had loved her from the moment they had first spoken of his existence as a spirit, when his desire to know more about the strange ways of humans made him restless with feelings he didn't have names for.

He had loved her kindness in giving him the lyrium ring that sang of the Fade and of her. He had worn it with the sweet knowledge that she had thought enough of him to bestow a gift on him. The ring's song had warmed him in unexpected ways and given him the resolve to experience more. It had been so easy to discuss the matter with Anders. Had he manipulated Anders or had Anders manipulated him? Would he ever know? Did it even matter?

Anya had warned him of the dangers and she'd been right, of course. Too many conflicting and powerful emotions had nearly destroyed him, had consumed him until his light was nearly extinguished, his voice a mere whisper. His need for justice had been subsumed by Anders's own need for revenge. Anya had once explained that justice without mercy or compassion was blood lust and vengeance, lacking all honor. He understood her words now that it was nearly too late.

His compulsion had destroyed so many lives, and more would be destroyed if he didn't find a way to communicate Anders's plans. Once again he thought of the ring, the gift of the Fade he had called it. An idea began to form and take shape, and he quickly buried it beneath Anders's thoughts lest the mage, and therefore Vengeance, discover it.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The sky slowly softened to evening, pale light limned with peach as the sun dwindled into a mere hint. Margaret stopped, her face turned skyward, as if to catch those final rays. She cast a quick glance at Fenris, who was not watching the sun's departure, but her face. Her smile widened and she tightened her grip on his elbow, her earlier anxiety about the upcoming meeting sliding away at the warmth and love she saw in his expression.

"Shall we?" she asked, surprised by the breathiness of her voice.

Fenris snickered softly but didn't speak. She heard Sebastian's reluctance when he answered her, followed by a hastily whispered prayer. Without another word, she opened the door and entered, confident that Fenris and Sebastian were right behind her.

Tapers on the altar flickered, sending long shadows dancing on the walls of the chantry. Margaret shivered and instinctively moved closer to Sebastian as if his innate goodness was armor against the unknown darkness.

"Good evening, my child," Grand Cleric Elthina greeted, stepping back from the altar with a gentle smile. "Sebastian, you are well?" she continued, moving towards them, her arm moving in a blessing. "Fenris, we have missed you at our services."

"Grand Cleric," Margaret said, her voice soft in deference to the acoustics.

"So, my dear, what is it you wished to see me about?"

Margaret felt a ripple of anger course through her blood. Must they continue with the charade that all was well in Kirkwall? She was also sorry she hadn't thought to bring Seneschal Bran along, there was nobody better at dissembling than the seneschal. She felt completely out of her depth as she stood before the faded glory of Elthina. It was only the vagueness in the woman's grey eyes that compelled Margaret to speak.

"Your Grace, I am sure you recognize that there is a need for stability in Kirkwall. The growing unease, especially between First Enchanter Orsino and Knight Commander Meredith, continues unabated and will do so until such time as a new viscount is appointed and approved."

"Surely it is not as bad as you seem to think it is, my child."

Anger rippled through Margaret again, loosening her tongue. "Grand Cleric Elthina, it is not as bad as I think, it is worse! There is very nearly open warfare between Orsino and Meredith. With all her concentration focused on Orsino, Meredith is not attending to the duties required in running the city. It is time, and beyond time, for you to step in and put a stop to it.

"Furthermore, I was accosted by an agent of the Divine recently. I will not allow myself to be pulled into any endeavor that pits the citizenry of Kirkwall against the might of both templars and mages. For whatever reason, this agent sought to test my loyalty and I tell you now that I will not tolerate such an act. If she is here to seek out and purge revolutionaries she is looking at the wrong person!"

It was only Sebastian's calming hand on her shoulder that stopped her diatribe against the ineffectual spiritual leader of Kirkwall. Margaret clamped her lips together and then gripped her hands to still their agitated waving. Fenris cleared his throat, moving closer to Margaret, his hands shifting restlessly as if he wanted to grab for his sword but knew better.

"Sister Nightingale assured me that such a test was necessary," the older woman began and then sighed, her proud shoulders slumping as if in defeat. Or perhaps, Margaret thought, in release of a burden that had become too heavy. Elthina continued, "I have outlived my usefulness, haven't I? I promised myself I would step down before that happened."

The sadness in the woman's voice penetrated Margaret's veil of anger and she found herself feeling sorry for Elthina. "All you need is a viscount who will be allowed to perform as he must for the good of the city. He can't do that if Meredith nails his hands to the table."

Elthina winced at her phrasing but Margaret pushed on, warming to her topic, "And you must put an end to the animosity between Meredith and Orsino – quickly, while there is still time to do so. Already there is talk of rebellion among the mages and even some of Meredith's templars who feel she is being unfair to them, just as some of the mages feel Orsino is risking too much with his talk. Schisms are forming between and among both camps, Your Grace. Only you, or the Divine, have the authority to put both the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander in their place once and for all, and I urge you to do so immediately, Your Grace."

The older woman bowed her head, her lips moving in silent prayer. Margaret glanced at Sebastian, hoping he saw the silent appeal in her expression. He gave her a serene smile, a benediction that calmed her immediately, easing the ache between her shoulders as her tension ebbed.

"You have given me much to think about, Margaret. Have you a candidate in mind for the viscount's position?"

Margaret's heart remained silent, no beat disturbing her surprisingly calm voice as she spoke. "Yes, Your Grace. I think Seneschal Bran would be perfect for the job, and I have it on good authority that the members of the nobility would greet such a candidate warmly; his acceptance would be swift and unanimous."

Her words surprised Elthina, if the older woman's sudden pallor and wide eyes were judged correctly. Margaret smiled, amusement unfurling in her and pushing aside her earlier anger. "I fear you suspected I would nominate myself, but truly, I have no head for governance and would be extremely uncomfortable and unskilled at the task."

"I will write to the Divine this evening and ask to have my successor named."

Margaret frowned, holding her breath. Surely the more important task was to seat a new viscount? Her gaze shifted to Sebastian, who met her eyes with a brief shake of his head. Her eyes traveled to Fenris, who did likewise. Were they telling her not to pursue the matter further? Were they shaking their head in dismay at Elthina's decision to resign before she reined in Meredith and Orsino? She drew a deep breath, so deep it seemed to rise from her toes all the way up through her lungs and then she exhaled silently, willing her nerves to steady.

"And will you also put forth the seneschal for the position of Viscount of Kirkwall?" she prodded, her voice much calmer than her thoughts.

"I must consider this carefully, Margaret. You have, through your own courage, reminded me what my purpose is, and I must choose wisely, mustn't I?"

The calm reflection in the woman's grey eyes did little to assuage Margaret's concerns for the city. Annoyed that she'd been trapped by her own words, Margaret merely nodded, her tongue clinging to the roof of her dry mouth.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Sebastian said, his voice fervent and reverent. "I have faith that this matter will resolve itself quickly."

"I will carry the letter to the Divine," an unexpected voice offered in dulcet, accented tones.

Margaret's heart seized and she started violently as Sister Nightingale stepped from the shadows. Her hands gripped each other and she felt the sweetness of lyrium as her magic gathered around her, an instinctive act of survival that she strove to control. A deep breath, followed by another and the magic dissipated, leaving her breathing evenly.

"Sister Nightingale, what a surprise to see you. Is this another test of loyalty?" Margaret asked, unable to keep the scorn from her voice. Fenris, hands on his sword, withdrew them slowly, his lyrium singing in faint blue harmony with her own.

"I was on my way to my quarters when I saw this meeting and thought I might be of some benefit."

Hands now clenched into fists at her side, Margaret shook her head. "If you are here to assess the situation in Kirkwall, you would do well to speak to the mages, the templars, and the citizens of Kirkwall."

The redhead's blue eyes widened and her lips turned up in a brief, cool smile. "But of course, Champion. I have, this very evening, presented myself to Knight Commander Meredith, who assures me that she has complete control of the mages and that all is well. You disagree, apparently."

Was the woman a fool? Or playing her for one? Margaret's strained smile froze in place and her words came out as cold as a Ferelden winter. "You know I do, Sister Nightingale. You continue to alienate my trust in you," she said.

With a quick nod to the Grand Cleric, she turned on her heel to leave, sure that both Fenris and Sebastian would follow her lead. Her steps were quick and sure, even through the flickering darkness of the unlit nave. She paused as Sister Nightingale's voice rose from the shadows.

"I will call on you tomorrow, if I may. We have much to discuss, it seems."

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Maker, is there anyone in Thedas not causing trouble right now?" Carver growled, running his fingers through his hair in agitation. "And why are they all trying to kill _us_?"

Flynne's smile flashed. "Not sure that the Imperium is after us, or those cold-hearted brutes in the Anderfels."

"_Yet_," Carver retorted grimly. "And if the First Warden has his way and becomes King Magnus of the Anderfels, he'll come after us quick enough. Bloody oath, Commander, you've pissed off just about everyone."

Anya chuckled dryly. "It certainly seems that way, doesn't it? It feels like we're all being maneuvered against our will, doesn't it? As if we're just playthings for the gods."

They were gathered in the captain's wardroom, around a desk bolted to the deck. In the morning they would dock in Denerim and there were last minute discussions that Anya felt were necessary, but five days of relaxation made it difficult for all of them to concentrate on serious matters.

The captain, a taciturn and grizzled old Marcher, had offered her the use of the cabin with grudging respect when she'd explained exactly who she was and why she needed a private place that was larger than her tiny cabin. He hadn't hesitated to whisk away his maps and sea charts to accommodate her. She'd spread a map of Thedas across the worn oak and was now pointing to the disputed border between Nevarra and Orlais.

"Let's start here and see if we can make any sense of this. Orlesians, and I presume Nevarrans as well, have always been led to believe the skirmishes along the border are over mineral rights in that area. We're predisposed to believe that because the area has some of the richest mineral deposits in Thedas. However, it seems there is more to it than that."

Carver looked at her from beneath lowered brows. "Of course there is. You wouldn't have been involved if it was that easy."

She was startled by his insight and then ashamed of herself for how easily she had earlier dismissed his intelligence. He had proven himself time and again, yet she had not given him his due.

"Exactly, although I wish I'd seen that earlier," she sighed. "Apparently, one of the Orlesian mining expeditions discovered dragon grounds within a cavern system near Perendale. I wasn't able to find out if the Nevarrans are aware of that, but I suspect they know, given the thwarted attack on Micah Pentaghast. The Orlesians want the Wardens to escort a group of soldiers and the Imperial Court's sorceress into the caverns to find and release any of the sleeping dragons. That would tell me that there are high dragons about, otherwise it isn't worth the risk. I have no idea how one does that or why one would want to."

Carver's eyes were wide, his look one of fascination. Anya felt a smile quirk her lips at his unabashed enthusiasm. He spoke quickly, like a stream bouncing down a mountain, bubbling and bright with excitement. "Me either. Those things are huge. But powerful. Without a dragon, we'd never have made it out of Ferelden. I mean we had our very own dragon … well, actually I've never quite understood if she was a mage who could shape shift into a high dragon or a high dragon who could shape shift into a human, but she saved our lives when we were fleeing."

"What? You never told me that before," Flynne whistled, flicking at Carver's arm in feigned disgust. "Not a word."

"It's not as if the subject of dragons has come up when we've talked."

Nathaniel's voice broke into the conversation, his tone crisp. "Who was this shape shifting dragon mage?"

"Who? I uh … wait a minute, I know I know it, just can't quite remember." Carver rubbed the back of his head, frowning. "Someone important, according to Margaret. All I remember is that she talked a lot of rubbish about changes and precipices and leaping. Old hag."

Anya felt her heart leap painfully in her chest and she gripped the table's edge for support. Mouth dry, she said quietly, "Carver, you need to remember everything about her and what she said. Every word, every gesture."

A shiver chased along her spine and tingled out, sending goosebumps along her arms, and she felt as if a long overdue answer to the puzzle was finally within her grasp.


	47. With this Truth

**With This Truth**

_With this truth, I set thee free  
>To sail upon the Waking Sea.<em>  
><em>- Song of Sorrows<em>

They gathered in the library. A silver tray sat on a small rosewood table,an elegant silver teapot and fine porcelain teacups resting on it. Margaret, Fenris, Varric, and Sebastian gathered around the table, wearing the comfortable expressions of trusted friends. A fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace, casting the group into golden relief and Margaret felt a swell of love inside that settled her nervous stomach and steadied her hand.

"I can't imagine she'll admit to the real reason for her visit," Sebastian mourned, standing to rest his arm on the mantelpiece. "She's a canny lass."

"Canny or crafty?" Varric rejoined, easing off his chair to join the young prince.

"Both," Fenris muttered. "This woman is a menace and I would ask that …" he trailed off as Bodahn entered.

"Sister Nightingale to see you, Lady Margaret," he announced, a whisper of concern sharpening his tone.

"Thank you, Bodahn. Show her in."

Glances exchanged and an air of expectancy and tension seemed to steal the air from the room, leaving Margaret slightly breathless. She sat up straight, refusing to rise and greet her guest.

Within moments, the redhead was ushered into the room. She was dressed in dark brown leather armor and her steps were quick and certain. There was no trace of nervousness or even surprise at the number of people in the room, only a smile that seemed too charming.

Margaret waved the woman into a chair directly across from her, her own smile cool and perfunctory. Wary and watchful, her companions returned to their chairs and formed a protective barrier as Margaret lifted the ornate silver teapot. There was no welcome in her smile, no warmth in her greeting.

"Tea, Sister Nightingale? Or do you prefer being called Sister Leliana?" Margaret asked civilly.

"Tea would be lovely, Serah Hawke, thank you. And I answer to either name."

"And a host of others, I'll bet," Varric muttered as he set aside his teacup. Margaret suspected he would prefer a flagon of stout rather than the insipid tea, but she held her thoughts to herself as he spoke again. "Right or Left Hand of the Divine? I can't remember," he added, his voice just vehement enough for the woman to blink at such hostility.

"Either is acceptable, my friend," she replied, her voice faintly cajoling and melodic. Margaret felt the muscles in her stomach clench as the tones of a well-versed bard wrapped around the occupants.

Varric raised his golden brown brow and shook his head. "I'm not your friend and you're not mine. I actually have to trust and respect a person before I call them a friend. And lady, I don't trust anything about you."

Wide blue eyes narrowed and the woman's smile chilled imperceptibly. Margaret placed a hand on Varric's arm, her eyes lingering on his long enough to express her gratitude for his uncompromising honesty. "Although I agree with Varric, I would not have been quite so direct about it, Sister Leliana. I appreciate that Varric was. Now, please, let's dispense with the sparring and tell me what it is you want of me."

The sister rose, moving to the mantelpiece with a languorous grace. She gave a negligible shrug before looking at Margaret over her shoulder, hands fluttering above the carved figures on the mantel. The action seemed flirtatious, almost coy, and Margaret realized anew just how untrustworthy the woman was. As if she needed a reminder, she thought, and felt her disgust and ire rising in equal measure.

"I have been sent by the Divine to discover how deeply the mage rebellion goes and how the templars are responding to what many here perceive as imminent war between the two. I was also sent to determine if you were an ally. Naturally the Divine hopes you will aid in any endeavor to defuse the situation, but one must be sure, yes?"

"The mage crisis can easily be averted by removing Grand Cleric Elthina, Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino, although he has far less to acquit himself of than the other two," Margaret replied, spreading her hands and smiling politely. "You wish the truth but you seem unwilling to act upon it."

"I am not authorized to do more than observe."

From her left she heard Sebastian snort and a teacup clinked onto a saucer with enough force that she expected the tinkling of broken porcelain. She cast a reassuring smile at him before turning her attention back to the redhead. Varric spoke up again and she appreciated the biting derision in his voice as it so nearly mimicked her own feelings.

"Way to insult us all, Hand. You sent us into a trap and the Resolutionists nearly killed us just so you could test our loyalty. If we'd had trouble would you have intervened? No," Varric finished, waving his hand in disgust, "I don't need to hear your lies."

"You are very confident, Ser Varric," the sister said with a bubbling, infectious laugh. Or it would be had she managed to charm any of them.

Margaret dipped her head, unwilling to let the Hand of the Divine see her smile. Varric in a temper was a rare and wonderful thing to behold. She studied the carpet's patterns as the silence lengthened, content to wait for the combatants to continue. She did not wait long.

"Confident _and_ honest, neither of which you are. Now, why are you really here?"

"We are monitoring the situation, as I have said."

"And …" Varric prompted, casting a quick glance at Margaret, who flashed him a brief, private smile as an invitation for him to continue to lead the interrogation.

She shot a glance at Fenris, whose sneer was directed at the redhead. A muscle twitched near his eye and she could feel the barely restrained power in him, could feel the lyrium brands tugging at her, stirring her magic to life. She gave him a reassuring nod before turning to gaze at Sister Leliana, willing her to speak.

"The Divine does not wish to intervene for fear that such intervention would lead to bloodshed and religious schisms, as history has shown us," Sister Nightingale said with a mournful hint flavoring her voice.

"I call bullshit," Varric pronounced, his brow cocked. "If I had to guess at the real reason for your visit, I'd guess it is to ensure a confrontation occurs so you can step back and watch how the people of Kirkwall react. If I didn't know better, lady, I'd say you want to see this city torn apart by the templars and the mages as a test of the power of the mages if they were to unite and fight against the templars. You can tell me I'm wrong but we'll all know it's bullshit."

Silence, thick and hard, pushed its way into ever corner of the room. Even the fire suddenly seemed to hold back its crackling mirth. Moments ticked by, seeming more like hours, and still there was silence.

"Thank you for confirming our suspicions," Varric finally uttered into the stillness. "Now, how about you tell us why?"

A trill of laughter issued from the woman, jarring and forced. "The Divine does not wish to see violence of any kind, Ser Varric. It saddens me that you believe such a thing."

"_Venhedis_!" Fenris exploded, his eyes narrowed as he glared at Sister Nightingale. "Your lies are not even clever, which indicates either the Divine has hidden her intentions from even you, her most faithful servant, or you have been instructed to have us discover your true mission on our own for reasons I will not guess at. Now, before I decide to remove your heart, which is it?"

**~~~oOo~~~**

The Wardens arrived in Denerim on a warm afternoon when the sky was a perfect mirror image of the bright blue sea. Salt and fish and the rich scent of sun-heated pine planks filled the air, and noise rumbled around them. None of them were happy to disembark and leave behind the warm camaraderie or respite the voyage had provided. Anya, standing on the dock, sighed as she shaded her eyes and stared at the bustling quay. She was glad to be home and yet she felt unsettled, wondering how the king would take her news.

Her eyes traveled until they lit on the grey stone watchtowers and black-tiled roof of the castle. Brilliantly colored banners waved in a light breeze to announce the king was in residence. She felt a knot of disappointment form in her stomach and she gathered up her gear, limping away from the docks. She'd hoped the king would be off on a tour of the realm, not waiting at the palace for her to report her failure. There was no putting off the meeting with Alistair, no way to soften the disappointment he and Teagan were bound to feel that she returned without the former queen. As they left the bustle behind them, she stopped and turned to her men.

"Flynne, you and Carver go to the compound and see if any Wardens are present. Let them know we'll be leaving in the morning for the Vigil. If there aren't any horses in the stable, go to the livery and make arrangements."

"Yes, Commander," Flynne said with a flourish and a bow that brought a smile to her lips. "We'll await you there."

Teagan greeted them with his customary charm, but Anya saw behind the graceful manners to the man who guided the king. His disappointment was deep as evidenced by the unhappy undercurrent in his voice when he greeted them.

"Her Most Holy sends her greetings, King Alistair, and regrets she is unable to fulfill your request regarding Anora Mac Tir. She will do so once she has seen evidence that the former queen is behind any seditious acts against Ferelden but cannot do so until then," Anya said formally. Softening her voice, she added sincerely, "I'm sorry but she was adamant."

"Well of course she was. What else would she be? I mean, why would she believe the word of a _king_? A former _templar_? A former _Grey Warden_? I mean, I could be just any old bastard, couldn't I?"

Underneath his sarcasm she heard the lower tones of hurt and anger, almost masked but riding his words like a bird riding air currents. She understood that kind of pain more deeply now than she had before her trip home. "I'm sure if she knew you personally it would be different, Your Majesty."

"Ha. Isn't that the story of my life? No matter, Commander. I'll fill the dungeons with Anora's co-conspirators and one of them will talk. Not that _I'll_ torture them," he added, his eyes shifting from her to Nathaniel and back so quickly she would have missed it had she blinked. A frisson of anger stirred in her blood.

Teagan's laughter did not reach his piercing blue eyes and his voice, when he spoke, held an admonition in it. "Alistair, surely we can devise humane ways to discover the information we seek."

Alistair's cheeks broke out in red splotches and his eyes narrowed. His smile was cold and hard as he studied first Teagan and then Anya before speaking. "We can. And we certainly don't want to look too strong, do we, Teagan?"

Teagan's eyes widened and his surprise was evident in the sudden silence that darkened the room, as if a cloud had passed before the sun. Anya's nerves stretched taut and she glanced briefly at Nathaniel, who was unmoving and alert.

"Torture hardly seems a sign of strength, Your Majesty, but of desperation and despotism. Surely you don't wish to be thought so," she said quietly.

The king blinked and his smile wobbled and reasserted itself, once more boyish and apologetic. "I think I need a vacation, Teagan. Don't you think I need a vacation? Maybe somewhere warm? With lots of cheese and lots of silence. Days and days of silence."

"That makes two of us," Anya teased, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Unfortunately I have the Wardens and an arling to oversee and you have a nation to oversee. Is there anything you might require of me, Sire?"

"Al-i-stair. How many times have I requested that you call me Alistair? Teagan, have you been keeping count? I'm not sure I can count that high."

The tone was light and jovial, but underneath was the command of a king to a subject and she forced herself to smile and say, "Alistair. I beg your pardon."

"Do you believe Celene could lose her throne?"

His sudden departure from jocularity threw her and she answered honestly, not couching her belief in polite or political terms. "Yes, if she continues to be arrogant and trust the wrong people. There is change coming in Orlais, a civil war if I read the signs correctly. And with the unrest between mages and templars mounting there is no better time for Gaspard de Chalons to rise up and usurp the throne."

"A nasty piece of work, this de Chalons," Teagan commented grimly.

"Nastier than you can imagine. And there are other … forces at work, as well. I wonder, Your Maj – Alistair - what you can tell me about an apostate that traveled with you during the Blight. She has insinuated herself into Celene's court and I'm nervous about her presence there. She seems to have some influence with the empress."

"Well that's not good. Not good, at all," the king said with a nervous laugh. He paced the room, hands behind his back, eyes narrowed. Moments ticked away as he paced, moments in which Anya felt her fear coil in her stomach, hard as stone.

"She was a conniving bitch, sent with us to ..." he began and then trailed off, staring at the fire burning low in the fireplace, a faraway expression darkening his eyes momentarily, as if his thoughts caused a deep pain. "Flemeth's daughter, you know. She was sent to perform some kind of ritual in order to ensnare the soul of the Old God, if you can believe anything she says. Aedan was to impreg … are you sure you want to hear this?" he asked, cheeks flaming.

"Quite sure, Alistair. I'm not easily embarrassed or shocked."

"No, I imagine you aren't, having grown up in the Imperial Court."

There was surprisingly little bite in his words and Anya found herself smiling. "Indeed. You don't need to worry about my sensibilities being offended, Alistair."

"She wanted Aedan to impregnate her during this ritual and the Old God's soul would be attracted to it when the Archdemon was slain. Aedan told her, in very plain and blunt terms, what she could do with that idea, even knowing one of us would die when we killed Urthemiel should he refuse her … uh ... request. She came to me after he turned her down. I also turned her down. Without hesitation. Why do you suppose I'm always second best, Teagan? Don't answer that, I don't want to know."

Anya suddenly understood too clearly why the woman was in Celene's court and why Magnus had involved the Wardens. Her breath left her in a rush and she felt lightheaded. She glanced at Nathaniel and saw the awareness brighten his grey eyes, making them gleam silver. The hair rose on her arms and neck and she took a steadying breath.

"What trouble is she causing now?"

"She has Celene believing she can awaken and control dragons to fight on the side of the empress, but I think there's more to it. She has the Grey Wardens involved too. I – this almost seems too preposterous to believe, but I think she's searching for one of the remaining Old Gods."

"Hmmm, she must want that soul badly."

Stunned, Anya felt lightheaded by his very casualness. Had he not heard her? Had he failed to understand the ramifications of a search for an Old God? He had been a Warden who helped end the fifth Blight. Surely he realized such an action would very likely start the sixth Blight?

"You understand that it is up to us to stop her from such a venture, Your Majesty?"

"Stop her? How do you plan to do that, Commander? Should we gather the ragged remnants of Ferelden's army so we can march against Empress Celene? Try to find the Old God and make him play with us instead of her? Or maybe just let Orlais destroy itself?"

She blinked, wondering for a moment if she was mad or if Alistair was or if the entire world had gone mad while she had sailed from Val Royeaux to Denerim. For a panic-stricken moment she felt faint, her vision narrowing darkly as bright pinpricks of light danced in her periphery.

"You're a Warden, Alistair. You know we do whatever it takes to stop a Blight," she said, her voice parchment thin and raspy.

"So, let's assume you're correct, Anya. Let's just play that out. The Orlesians, along with the Weisshaupt and Orlesian Wardens, go into those dragon caverns near Nevarra looking for an Old God. They find one and let it loose, starting a Blight that devours Orlais and Nevarra, maybe even a bit of the Anderfels. Why should that concern Ferelden, exactly?"

She wanted to reach out and clutch at Nathaniel for support; the room tipped before it dipped away, and her breathing was labored. She fought to regain control and when she spoke, her voice was less reedy. "Have you forgotten everything you learned as a Warden?" she demanded, her anger lending strength to her words. Her shoulders straightened and she searched Alistair's eyes for compassion. She found none.

"I haven't forgotten, Anya. I won't ever forget that when the Wardens of Ferelden needed them most, the Wardens of every other nation turned their backs on us. If they had aided us my brother would be alive. Aedan would be alive. Most importantly, Duncan would be alive." He paused, his nostrils flaring briefly as the extent of his bitterness made itself known.

"I don't owe Orlais allegiance, and I certainly don't owe the Wardens any allegiance. They will get no help from me."

With that, the King of Ferelden turned on his heel and strode purposefully from the room.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"I need more Drakestone," Anders instructed, leaning down to ruffle the young boy's hair.

The boy, tow-headed and covered in grime, touched his forelock. "Fer another golden boy I'll does it, serah," he grinned, holding up the gold sovereign Anders had just given him.

There was a frailty to the boy, as if a strong wind would take him off his feet, but he hefted the sack of Drakestone he'd collected as if it was weightless. Anders nodded and watched the boy scamper away before he reached for the sack and carefully hid it behind the armoire.

**Who do you think will see it, Anders? Now that everyone thinks you're crazy they stay away**.

"Hawke said she would stop by later, and Fenris will be with her. He won't let her visit alone."

**Have I not remarked any number of times that we need to eliminate that elf? He grows most annoying**.

"Kill him and you risk everything! Just ignore him and concentrate on our work."

**The sooner we finish this the sooner the issue becomes moot. **

Finality resonated in Vengeance's voice, reverberating in Anders's head until it ached. He shrugged and spoke softly. "So be it."

Justice struggled to give voice to his thoughts. _And will you care that the blood of Innocents stains your hands? How do you justify the slaughter of so many?_

**So melodramatic, Justice. There are no innocent people, merely degrees of guilt.**

"You picked a poor time for a philosophical discussion, boys. Let's just continue working, shall we?" With that, Anders bent over the high table, rolling up the sleeves of his worn linen shirt. He stared down at his hands. Smooth and tapered fingers reached out and pushed at the mound of Sela Petrae. Healer's hands. A disparaging laugh blew out like a sudden gust of chilled wind. No longer.

Silence settled over the workroom as Anders picked up his mortar and pestle, pulverizing the hard lumps of Sela Petrae into granules, whistling tunelessly. Justice wondered if he would be able to move in the Fade at all, and if he would be able to find Anya once he had. He felt a hopelessness brush along his thoughts as he realized it might very well be too late. Still, he had to find a way. Somehow.

**Justice, you really are impossibly romantic. It will not work, you know. I 'hear' every thought you have. Anders and I laugh at your mawkish regrets. Anya did not care for you, she never loved Anders, and she is beyond us all, in any event. Now, give your pathetic thoughts a rest. You test my patience past endurance.**

Anders smiled as he resumed his whistling. Soon the pompous spirit would be silenced for good and he would no longer be subjected to the pathetic pull of the penitent Justice, especially now that he and Vengeance spoke with one voice.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The horse had a gentle, amiable gait, leaving Anya to concentrate on her thoughts rather than the road home. Beside her, Nathaniel remained quiet but she could feel his eyes on her from time to time. Behind her, Flynne and Carver continued an animated argument over the merits of Nevarran horses versus Orlesian horses.

The bright blue promise of sunny skies had given way to the bleakness of low, rumbling grey clouds and the air was thick with the smell of rain-dampened soil. She tugged her canvas cloak tighter, anticipating the storm they were riding into, could sense the moisture in the heavy air. At least it wasn't foggy. No mist rose from the ground to blind them.

A part of her was almost sorry not to have a fight on her hands. Her body was tense, each muscle held taut as they rode along the Pilgrim's Path toward the Vigil. "I have no idea what to do next," she admitted, glancing at Nathaniel.

"Get married, prepare for a Blight, prepare for civil war, prepare for war with Orlais," he replied calmly. "In any order you choose, except getting married. That comes first."

"I feel like I'm being used by Alistair, Celene, Magnus, and even the Divine. I just don't quite understand why. I also feel as though I'm missing some vital something that everyone else can see, but I have no idea what it is. It's like I am completely blind but my other senses haven't compensated. None of those people need my assistance; they don't even appear to want it, so why are they involving me? And what can I do to stop whatever it is that's about to happen?"

"There isn't much we can do, Anya. We can get married and I would recommend sending notes to Fergus and Margaret to warn them ... not that I know what to warn them about."

"Exactly! What do I say to them? 'Hello, I think that Thedas is about to explode, please be prepared for the end of the world.' Yes, that would be perfect," Anya said glumly.

Nathaniel gave another low huff of laughter that was reassuring somehow. "We need Fergus to understand the seriousness of the situation. If ever he had political aspirations, now would be the time to act. And he did have them, a long time ago. He wanted his father to become king back when Maric disappeared, and he has the power and authority to call a Landsmeet. I suspect he also has the support to take the throne legally. His claims are legitimate and he is well respected among the other nobles."

"I'll invite him to the wedding and we can discuss everything with him then. It won't surprise me if he already knows some of it. I just – it galls me that I didn't see how bitter Alistair was."

Emotions constricted her throat and she reined in her mare as tears formed. In front of her stretched the rough majesty of Vigil's Keep, its battlements and watchtowers rising from the land in welcome. Harsh grey stone and seasoned timbers beckoned. Home. She reached blindly for Nathaniel's hand and squeezed it tightly in hers, the tension easing as thoughts of Sigrun and Varel and her Warden family pushed aside her fears.

"It feels as if we've been gone for years," she said around the emotion that seemed to choke her.

"And your liege lord is visiting," Nathaniel said, collapsing the spyglass he held in his other hand. "The Highever banners are flying atop the Vigil."

Her laughter was ragged and frayed, as if her thoughts and emotions were unraveling now that home was so close. "That eliminates one letter I needed to write. But I do wonder what brought him here now, at this time. I'm not sure how much more bad news I can hear without flying apart."

He edged his horse closer and leaned in to touch her cheek, a fleeting caress that caused her heart to flutter in her chest and her breath to quicken. "Maybe I'll ask him to be a witness to our vows," he whispered and then spurred is horse, shooting ahead of her.

She touched her horse's flanks and galloped after him, just as the rain finally began to fall.

**A/N:** _Thank you to all of those who are reading, following, favoriting and reviewing. I appreciate it more than I can say._  
><em>Thank you, Oleander's One, for another excellent beta, and for handholding and just being there for me. <em>


	48. The Edge

**A/N: **_I have so many excuses for why this is so late, but the simplest, truest excuse is that I hit a wall and couldn't put two sentences together until very recently. I am sorry for the delay and hope it doesn't happen again. Thank you all for hanging in there.  
>There is a NSFW section towards the end of the chapter due to a wedding night. I blame Naughty Nate.<br>Thank you, Oleander's One, for your support, your help, your humor and your friendship. You are a bright spark in the deep dark and I love having you in my life. Thank you, Enaid, for general awesomeness and hand-holding when I panicked. _

**The Edge**

"And your friend? Was he able to find anything?" Margaret asked, her voice more hopeful than she would like.

She avoided looking at Varric as she spoke, knowing she would give away how worried she was about the events spiraling silently out of control in Kirkwall. What was the point of being the Champion of Kirkwall if nobody listened to her? It was a question she had asked herself repeatedly and never once had she received an answer.

"Nothing. He claims her room's too neat. Sounds like she expected someone to search her quarters. No surprise there."

"You're sure you can trust this friend of yours?"

"Hawke, please. I didn't just fall off the hay wagon. I know what I'm doing, including hiring Slick for the job. If he didn't find anything it's because there was nothing to find," Varric replied, his voice smooth and consoling. "These bard types are clever enough not to leave anything incriminating where it can be found."

Tamping down her disappointment, Margaret chose to pace her library again. They had all gathered there after the meeting with a less than forthcoming Sister Nightingale. "So all those threats and strong-arm tactics were for nothing?"

"Not exactly _nothing_," Varric replied. "I thought Sister Nightingale was going to faint when Broody offered to tear her heart out. That alone made it worthwhile."

A grim smile flashed across Fenris's lips. "I will admit I enjoyed the moment."

"Why is she really here? And what does Justinia truly want? There is something much more sinister going on, I'm sure of it. I can _feel_ it. But what?" Margaret asked, her voice vibrating with the frustration she had hoped to hide. Rubbing at her temple, as if she could rub away the headache that formed there, she sighed, wondering why she had bothered trying to mask her feelings to begin with.

"You mean besides encouraging the hostilities between the templars and mages?" Varric asked, shaking his head.

"You truly believe that? Why wouldn't the Chantry want to calm the waters? Why would they want a war between mages and templars? Hawke, I know you think that's what she is doing, but I cannot believe an agent of the Divine would be that ruthless."

Sebastian's continued naiveté surprised Margaret, and she felt a creeping anger seep into her blood. She had thought that he'd finally come to terms with the manipulations and maneuvering they had uncovered in the Chantry hierarchy, but as she studied the young prince, realization swept away her annoyance. He had agreed to his part in their plan in order to prove that the sister was innocent of any wrongdoing or evil intentions, thereby proving the Divine's innocence as well. Affection and exasperation warred within her and it was several moments before she trusted herself to speak.

"Sebastian, she told us that we must encourage the Grand Cleric to flee to Val Royeaux. However, she did not recommend removing the Knight-Commander or the First Enchanter from their positions. Nor did she recommend a replacement for the Grand Cleric. She did not offer to help find any more of these Resolutionists, nor did she apologize for using us." She paused, drawing a deep breath and tamping down her frustration before continuing.

"Why did she have to prove our loyalty, as she claimed? What had we to prove? How did she even know about us? Why did she not speak to the Grand Cleric about all of this? She came to observe the tension between the templars and mages, not to assist in quelling an imminent rebellion. She may not have actively sought to encourage it, but she certainly did through her inaction. It is time for you to acknowledge that neither the Divine nor her minions have Kirkwall's best interest at heart."

She watched as her words filtered through Sebastian's faith, feeling a moment's sorrow for the war raging inside him. She had watched it growing for months, his religious beliefs clashing with the realities of the coming war and the Chantry's lack of aid. He'd known, without being able to admit it, that all was not perfect within the institution. He'd always been dogmatic and earnest in his need to continue believing, but now, in light of events, he could no longer deny something ominous was occurring.

"In the meantime, Choir Boy, I think you should move out of the Chantry and into Hawke's place. Things are only going to get worse from here on out," Varric agreed, thumping the prince on the back with a good-natured slap. "Unless you want to move into Broody's moldering mansion."

"I cannot leave Elthina to her fate. I must stand by her and assist her in any way I can," Sebastian replied, his face set in grimly determined lines.

But Margaret saw the fear in his eyes; saw his shoulders were not as square as they normally were. Her heart went out to him as disillusionment with all he held dear continued to erode his carefully constructed beliefs. He was a brother of the Chantry and Elthina was a mother figure.

Margaret put her hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I know it's difficult to believe, Sebastian, but you must put aside your vows to Grand Cleric Elthina and the Chantry in order to do what's best for both."

Vivid blue eyes blinked back tears and he straightened. "I must try everything I can to get through to Elthina, Hawke. I cannot walk away until I have."

No, Margaret thought sadly, you cannot walk away at all. She wondered if she would be able to protect him against the coming storm. And coming it was. She felt the press of it always in her mind, like a constant hot wind scouring at her skin, leaving her raw and anxious.

"You should have let me rip that bitch's heart out. She is no more a sister of the Chantry than Petrice was a mother. They corrupt the teachings of the Chantry and make a mockery of the canticles," Fenris uttered, his voice low and fierce.

Margaret, watching Sebastian's squared shoulders as he departed, took a deep, steadying breath before turning her attention to the elf beside her. The rage in him sparked a rush of lyrium, his branding alive with it. Her blood and magic stirred and murmured through her veins.

"Inciting the Divine's retribution would have done us no good," Margaret replied more calmly than she felt. "We'll just have to continue to follow Sister Nightingale and see what comes of it."

"You really think tipping our hand like that helped even a little? She's more likely to go to ground, Hawke. Then what will we do?" Varric interjected, hefting Bianca from one shoulder to the other with a quick caress of the gleaming stock.

"Hope that your spy network is as good as you've always claimed," she replied with more confidence than she felt. They had gambled and they had yet to find out if it had paid off, but Margaret had to believe because the alternative was unthinkable.

When the first messenger arrived in the form of a young boy with dark hair and bright blue eyes that were too aware and too old in his grubby face, the news confused them all. The agent of the Divine had met with Knight-Commander Meredith and gifted her with a glowing red greatsword.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The press of Wardens brought a wash of tears to Anya's eyes as she greeted each familiar and beloved face. She blinked the moisture back, horrified by such a lapse, especially in front of the new recruits who stood slightly apart, ill at ease in their new Warden armor.

The Wardens fell back as Fergus entered the great hall. Anya's eyes met his and she gave him a warm smile. He grinned and raised a brow, inclining his head. "Later," she mouthed and then Sigrun was there, fierce blue eyes radiating her joy at Anya's return.

"You took long enough, Commander!" the dwarf exclaimed, her arms stretching around Anya in a fervent hug. Anya worried about her bones cracking, but returned the hug with equal ferocity, grateful to be among friends and loved ones again.

"Ancestors' stone-forsaken balls! Don't do that again!" Sigrun whispered fiercely before stepping back, arms once more at her side.

Anya nodded, eyes flitting across the great chamber to rest on a small group standing in the background. The tension in her shoulders continued to ease as her eyes settled on them.

Varel, straight and tall in his polished armor, silver hair gleaming under the glow of the candlelight, waited patiently for his turn to greet them. His face was as stern as ever, but his eyes were kind and filled with approval, like a father watching a favored child. Anya's heart warmed to see him, to know that he held her in high regard, to feel his approval after all that had occurred in Orlais. A momentary pang of sorrow stung her and was gone as she smiled her greeting and he returned it with a slight bow.

Beside him stood Bragheda, her thin face wreathed in smiles, her chatelaine hanging proudly from her waist. Standing slightly behind and to the left of the housekeeper was Rafaela, ready to step forward and relieve Anya of her cloak and whisk her upstairs for a hot bath. She gave them each a flashing smile and nod before her eyes traveled on.

Sarhal, the elven healer, stood nearby, content to wait her turn to exchange greetings, her brown eyes lit with humor. Her eyes widened as Anya moved through the crowds and she spoke in a breathless, excited voice. "Your limp is greatly improved, Commander. I am pleased."

"As am I, but don't tell Flynne. It will go straight to his head, and Maker knows it's large enough as it is. How are the new Tower recruits working out?"

"We lost two to the Joining, but the others are all doing quite well. Three mages, two templars, two archers and one of the king's own guard. He's a bit of a rogue, but deadly with his sword and dagger."

"Excellent. Thank you, Sarhal. It appears that you and Sigrun have kept everything running smoothly."

"Thanks to Varel. The man is a marvel."

Nearly an hour passed before Anya had sufficiently greeted all her Wardens and the Vigil's staff. The storm continued to rage outside and she was grateful for the fire blazing in the large fireplace. She made her way to Fergus, who stood near the blaze, his hands stretched to the warmth radiating from the burning logs.

"Arlessa Anya, your trip was successful?"

She glanced around the hall, wondering how long it would be before she had to share the news with her Wardens. Disappointment trickled along her veins, turning her blood sluggish, and the joy of homecoming was overshadowed by reality. She would have to make some very difficult decisions soon and the knowledge pressed on her. Sighing, she shook her head.

"Not at all, Teyrn Fergus. I have much to tell you. But first, I congratulate you on the speed of the construction on the island. The watchtower and fortress on Brandel's Reach are coming along quickly."

"I will have a complement of one hundred soldiers barracked there when it's completed and I have the king's promise of matching numbers from the home guard. How many of the Silver Order can I expect?"

That was a question that had no easy answer. Anya motioned for him to follow her and she led him to her office, Varel and Nathaniel in pursuit. She thought longingly of a warm bath in front of a roaring fire, a hot meal and a soft bed, but the news couldn't wait.

"Bragheda, please send in refreshments and have Sigrun join us," she ordered.

Three hours later, Anya sat back and sighed, her throat scratchy and nerves taut from recounting the events of Kirkwall and Orlais. She closed her eyes wearily, waiting for someone to speak, but the steady drumbeat of rain tapping at the windows was the only sound for long moments.

"As you can see, it appears almost as if someone is deliberating creating chaos, as paranoid as that makes me sound. There is the woman known as Morrigan, who seems to want the soul of an old god as a protection against her mother, Flemeth. At least if Alistair is to be believed.

"There is Celene, who hopes to enlist the aid of dragons in her war against her cousin and rival, Gaspard de Chalons. There is Enrique Caron, who will do anything to protect Orlais, even murder his own daughter." The bitterness cut into her voice, leaving it cold and hard.

Taking a deep breath, Anya glanced at Nathaniel, who was adding a log to the fire. He turned to look at her, flashing an encouraging smile at her before returning to his chair. She took a deep breath before continuing.

"There is Anora, throwing her lot in with de Chalons in hopes of ruling Ferelden once more. Her knowledge of Ferelden and the nobles, not to mention her knowledge of the army, make her impossible to ignore."

Anya paused to sip at her cooling tea, wondering if she could forgo it all together in favor of the brandy. Setting her empty cup aside, she continued briskly, "Somehow the Pentaghasts are involved, although I'm not sure how or why. The Brotherhood of the Wolf is involved, thanks to my father, and Maker knows who else is involved and what other plots are out there. The Felicisima Armada seems to have taken an interest in Amaranthine, as we discussed earlier, but I have no idea who hired them. Or why."

"And King Alistair is determined to blind himself to everything, which makes him as dangerous as Anora," Nathaniel reminded quietly.

Anya took another deep breath, heart fluttering as she waited for Fergus to speak. When he did, his voice was thoughtful. "It does appear as if we're standing on the edge of reason, doesn't it? And manufactured mayhem. But for what purpose?"

"I am glad you see that as well, Your Grace," she sighed. Fergus's raised eyebrow and downturned mouth brought a brief smile to Anya's lips. "Fergus," she amended.

"The trick will be to find out who and intercede," Nathaniel agreed and then frowned. "Or deconstruct this, person by person. That may be the only way to stop whoever is behind all of this."

"And thanks to my father, and de Chalons, I am no longer effective and may pose a danger to the arling. I will need to step down as both the arlessa and the commander."

The words fell into the sudden stillness like stones falling into a pond, rippling out quietly to touch each person present. Anya stared at Nathaniel, her hands resting in her lap but clasped so tightly her skin felt bruised.

Silence, heavy and oppressive, settled in the room, broken only by the low roar of the storm overhead and the crackling of the fire. Anya forced her eyes away from Nathaniel and they finally fixed on the teyrn.

Fergus leaned back in his chair, sipping his brandy-laced tea thoughtfully. "I understand your reasoning, Annie, but not necessarily your conclusion. Perhaps it's best to step aside temporarily, but only until this threat has passed."

Words welled up like tears, and she spoke in a weary voice. "I'm not sure I've the heart to continue, Fergus. There's still so much to do here and I think it best if I step aside. There's more I can do if I'm not associated with either the Wardens or this arling. I recommend Nathaniel's nephew be given the title and lands, with a guardian or regent appointed in the interim."

Sigrun protested, leaping to her feet. "You can't! Annie, you can't quit being a Warden any more than I can quit being a dwarf!"

Anya offered a wan smile. "I'm sorry, Sigrun, but I can and will. I wasn't born a Warden or an arlessa. Unless," she added, her smile brightening fractionally, "you're telling me you weren't born a dwarf?"

"Who knows? I was too young to remember," Sigrun mumbled, but both women smiled at the words, their familiar weight like a comfortable old blanket. Annie reached forward and gripped Sigrun's hands.

"I have already sent a letter requesting that you take my place," Anya said quietly and her voice caught, tripping over the words slightly, before righting itself. "And there is no reason not to assume they will grant the request. Until such time as they have formally announced it, I appoint you as the interim Commander of the Grey of Ferelden."

She wondered if that was even true, or if some puppet from Weisshaupt would be appointed as the new commander. She hadn't formalized her request yet and she wondered now if she shouldn't wait for awhile.

"So, the first thing we have to do is silence Anora. That will at least slow down an attack on Ferelden, which must be our primary concern," Fergus mused, leaning forward. "And I have just the man for the job."

The shadows stirred, the curtains billowed. Anya's hand went to the hilt of her dagger as adrenaline surged into her blood. Nathaniel leapt to his feet, knife drawn. Fergus shook his head, a reassuring smile tilting his lips upward. "It's all right, Annie. He's a good guy."

"Some would say I'm very, very good," a golden-haired elf purred, stepping out of the shadows.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Nathaniel found her on the ramparts at sunrise, as he knew he would. The storm had moved south, leaving the sky awash with brilliant salmon and peach ribbons against the pearl grey of dawn. The day promised to be warm and bright, the grey slowly giving way to a deepening blue.

Her hair blazed in the first golden rays of the sun, an incandescence that beckoned his fingers, but he stayed where he was, spellbound by the ethereal creature who had consented to be his wife. By sunset they would be bound in marriage for the rest of their lives. However long that may be. His heart thudded erratically in his chest, dancing in its elation, but cautious in its happiness.

Her skin, as pale and translucent as pearls, held a hint of pink, cast there by the soft fingers of sunlight streaming across an ocean of ever-brightening blue sky. She looked young and vulnerable and happy, as if she had consigned her concerns to the sun. He continued to watch as she lifted her face to the sky, eyes closed.

"Do you remember our first meeting?" she asked him, her voice a warm murmur of summer breezes.

It seemed a lifetime ago, when bitterness darkened his blood and forgiveness graced her smile. His heart seemed to grow larger and lighter as memories washed over him. "You were so determined to save me from myself. You refused to believe I would harm anyone. When you let me go, I had to come back. I had to know what you saw in me that I no longer could."

She turned to him, hand outstretched, and he moved closer, clasping it in his. Her smile held promises and secrets and seduction as she spoke again. "Such arrogance I had then. I was so sure I was saving you, but it was you who saved me. Right here on this rampart, looking out at the Waking Sea at sunset."

He leaned down, breathing deeply and caught the sweetness of verbena from her hair and the tang of salt in the air. "I think we saved each other," he whispered. His lips drifted across the silk of her gracefully arched neck. "And I might need saving again from time to time."

Her sigh warmed his skin and stirred his blood. "No regrets?"

"None. You?"

"Not a one."

"There's a chance that we can't stop whatever it is that has been set in motion. There's an even greater chance that we'll never return here once we leave for Kirkwall and Nevarra."

"So be it, Anya. Whatever happens in the future will happen and as long as I have you beside me, I'll face it gladly," Nathaniel vowed fervently, knowing it was true.

"Do you trust this Antivan Crow?"

"Not just an Antivan Crow, but a guild master. I think we can believe him when he says he will take care of Anora."

He felt her shiver as she stood in his arms. "We say that so easily, but it means she will be assassinated if he can't sneak her out of Orlais, and that isn't something that should be forgotten. At one time she was Queen Anora, married to the Theirin heir and she loved her country."

"Whoever she once was, she no longer is. She would bring Ferelden under Orlesian rule to soothe her vanity at having been removed from power. She nearly destroyed Ferelden during the Blight by falling in league with her father. Her crimes are many, her redemption nil. As much as I understand your reluctance, it's the right thing to do, Anya, for the sake of Ferelden. You know that."

He felt the tension ease from her as she expelled a drawn out breath, as if she'd been holding it for too long. When she spoke, her voice was softer, sadder. "Yes, yes, the pragmatist in me understands quite well. And time is becoming an issue. Zevran leaves tomorrow, and while he is gone, Fergus will send out the call for a Landsmeet. Let us hope that our trip is successful. But if Zevran doesn't meet us in Kirkwall within the three weeks allotted, I'll assume he isn't coming, that Anora is dead, and we'll leave for Nevarra and then on to Weisshaupt. If there's time."

Silence fell, interrupted by the high, bright call of a hawk, dark brown against the blue of the morning sky. Nathaniel's arms tightened momentarily and then released their hold. He stepped back, pushing aside the concerns and allowing his happiness to resurface.

"I spoke with Fergus about the arling. He agreed that Varel would be the perfect choice as guardian for Thomas until he's of age to rule the arling. Or would Delilah and Albert be the better choice?" she asked, her eyes returning to the distant sea.

Heart dipping in concern, Nathaniel kept his voice steady. "You sound as if you are anticipating the worst. Isn't that my job?"

Her laughter flowed around him, light and unmistakably bitter. "I've finally learned to prepare for the worst, even while hoping for the best. Besides, I have lost my effectiveness as a commander and arlessa. The notion that the Wardens should be involved in politics is both frightening and wrong. It's time I had the courage to step away."

"Thomas will make a fine Arl of Amaranthine, though Del is likely to be a bit unhappy with the scheme. She likes her role as Bann Delilah."

"If I thought he would stand for it, I'd make Varel the Arl. He is the heart of Amaranthine."

"He would rather be roasted alive."

They stood silently for long moments, gently swaying in a breeze made tangy by the sea. "So, when you step down as both Commander Anya _and_ Arlessa Anya, what will you do?" he finally asked, his arm sliding around her waist.

She was quiet for so long that Nathaniel was about to repeat his question when he heard her soft reply. "Live." She turned to pierce him with her eyes, blue and shimmering with tears. "I'll finally live the life I want. With you," she added, her smile radiant as she bestowed it on him.

Nathaniel felt as if he was standing on the edge of his past, ready to step into his future. He leaned down, his lips gentle on hers. "There's a whole world to explore, Anya."

Her tears washed over his cheeks and he stood in their grace for long moments before she finally stepped away, brushing furtively at her cheeks. "Isn't there some rule that says you aren't allowed to see me on our wedding day until the actual ceremony?"

"To the Void with rules," he growled, pulling her more tightly against him and away from the edge of the precipice.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Her room was crowded with friends. Delilah was creating small silk flowers, sitting on a low stool by the fire. Sigrun, Sarhal, Bragheda and Rafaela insisted on helping Anya bathe and dress, surrounding her with laughter. It was impossible not to feel lighter in the midst of their loving ministrations and her bleak mood of the morning gave way to nervous anticipation.

"Gee, Annie, you were in Orlais so why didn't you bring a fancy Orlesian gown? You know, one of those with twenty petticoats and lots of lace and bows and ribbons and such?" Sigrun joked.

Anya, glancing at the simple silk gown of sky blue, shrugged lightly. The high waist was accentuated by a deeper blue satin ribbon, the only adornment. No chemise or kirtle, no boned stomacher, just a loose fall of fabric, simple but graceful. She flashed a smile at Sigrun. "Be glad I'm not wearing my armor," she teased. "Or the Iron Crucible," she added, glancing pointedly at the iron brace that stood propped near her dressing table.

"Lady Anya does not need fancy clothes to be beautiful," Rafaela remarked, working a few silk flowers into Anya's hair, which was worn loose and falling past her shoulders, nearly to her waist. She had laughed when Delilah has insisted that it was tradition for the maiden to wear her hair loose, that it was a crowning glory and worn that way so that a husband could know the measure of her worth.

"The measure of my worth is not in my hair but in my skill as a fighter," Anya had told her future sister-in-law.

"Think whatever you want, dear, but Nathaniel will be entranced."

Sigrun snickered. "More by the cut of her bodice than her hair."

Anya plucked at the neckline, suddenly and unaccountably nervous, wondering if she should wear something more traditional but a knock on the door followed by Varel's gravelly voice prevented further concerns.

He took her hands in his. His eyes were warm and reassuring. "Are you nervous?"

"Not a bit," she lied, only to realize it was true in his presence. "Anxious for all this pomp and ceremony to be over, but not nervous."

They made their way downstairs and along the corridor to the audience chamber, Varel patiently pacing himself to match her slow descent. He paused, his hand on the door and smiled down at her. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"For allowing me to participate. For loving Nathaniel. He deserves his happiness, as do you."

Eyes stinging with unshed tears, she nodded, unable to speak around the knot of emotion in her throat. "And thank you for agreeing to stay on as seneschal for young Thomas. Fergus has the authority to name him the Arl of Amaranthine but we agreed that it should be done at the upcoming Landsmeet. Thomas will need a strong man to guide him, Varel. I'm glad he'll have you."

They stood silently and then Anya leaned up and kissed his weathered cheek before they entered the room, where she paused, her breath caught in a tear-filled throat.

The audience room was ablaze with candlelight, each pinpoint of light glowing with a golden flame. The scent of flowers filled the air and the large group of people parted to create a path to the massive stone fireplace where Fergus and Nathaniel waited. Her stomach and heart danced nervously as if trying to switch places, and her hand clutched Varel's arm, fingers digging in.

"Chin up, Commander," he said calmly and started them forward. She moved towards Nathaniel, her limp slowing her to a sedate and maidenly pace, giving her time to get her emotions under control.

When she reached Nathaniel's side, Fergus asked, "Who witnesses this marriage?"

"We do!" her Wardens shouted as one. Her eyes welled again, but Varel's steady grip helped her keep them checked. He gently placed her hand in Nathaniel's and the remainder of the civil ceremony passed in a blurring set of vignettes. Varel, presenting her hand to Fergus; Fergus, grinning mightily as he placed her hand on Nathaniel's before binding them with a silken cord; Sigrun cheering merrily when the new couple was presented; Nathaniel's austere face creasing in a tender, joyous smile.

"Let the festivities begin!"

**~~~oOo~~~**

Revelers, musicians, servants and laughter filled the banquet room. Anya, seated at the head table with Fergus on one side and Nathaniel on the other, glanced around the room with a grin. Her Wardens were celebrating as only Wardens could … boisterously and without restraint. For the moment, Anya was delight to join them, allowing their happiness to keep her dark concerns from dimming their enjoyment.

Fergus leaned close and said, "Had I known what a Warden celebration was like I'd have visited more often."

She raised the golden wedding goblet that she and Nathaniel shared, and toasted him, grinning happily. "You never bothered to accept an invitation. I can't be blamed for that."

"A most entertaining feast, my dear Lady Howe," the golden-haired elf commented, coming to stand beside Fergus. His hand rested on Fergus's shoulder in an almost proprietary manner and Anya raised her brows at the teyrn, who merely grinned and leaned slightly against the elf. She turned her eyes to the crowd and her smile froze.

"Oh Maker, is that Flynne? What has he planned?" Anya asked, leaning forward with a sinking feeling.

"I believe I heard Naughty Nate teaching him a song earlier," Fergus snickered.

She heard a low growl from Nathaniel and shrugged, unrepentant. "I assumed he knew about your escapades, husband of mine."

She refused to meet Nathaniel's steady grey gaze and he laughed, a low rumble that made her stomach dip. "I sense no apology forthcoming so I won't bother about one either, come what may," he warned quietly, but humor lurked in the tilt of his lips.

"Oh, dear. That _is_ worrisome, isn't it?" she murmured as she watched Carver's long, lanky form unfold and step up beside Flynne, clearing his throat as color flooded his cheeks.

"Hark, fellow revelers! A song for the lovely bride and stalwart groom! May he be inspired to perform more dazzling feats than this young smith!" Flynne toasted and cleared his throat. With a hasty glance at Carver, he began to sing and Carver joined in. Soon the entire crowd was clapping and swaying to the tune.

_A lusty young smith at his vice stood a-filing.__  
>His hammer laid by but his forge still aglow.<em>_  
>When to him a buxom young damsel came smiling,<em>_  
>And asked if to work in her forge he would go.<em>

_Rum, rum, rum. Rum, rum, rum.  
>In and out. In and out. Ho!<em>

_"I will," said the smith, and they went off together,__  
>Along to the young damsel's forge they did go.<em>_  
>They stripped to go to it, 'twas hot work and hot weather.<br>They kindled a fire and she soon made him blow._

Her husband, she said, no good work could afford her.

_His strength and his tools were worn out long ago.__  
>The smith said "Well mine are in very good order,<em>_  
>And I am now ready my skill for to show."<em>

Red hot grew his iron, as both did desire,

_And he was too wise not to strike while 'twas so.__  
>Said she, "What I get I get out of the fire,<em>_  
>So prithee, strike home and redouble the blow."<em>

Six times did his iron, by vigorous heating,

_Grow soft in her forge in a minute or so,__  
>But as often was hardened, still beating and beating,<br>But the more it was softened, it hardened more slow._

When the smith rose to go, quoth the dame full of sorrow:  
>"Oh, what would I give could my husband do so.<p>

_Good lad with your hammer come hither tomorrow,__  
>But pray could you use it once more ere you go!"<em>

At the end of the song, Anya was surrounded by the women and spirited away to the rowdy applause of the men. She allowed herself to be swept up the stairs to her quarters, laughing as an unexpected blush stained her cheeks.

**~~~oOo~~~**

She stood before the fire, her skin limned with gold, her hair a shimmering silk curtain, her smile bewitching. She was temptation incarnate and she was his. Gone was the insecure young woman who had been afraid to show him her scars; in her place stood a seductress. And by some miracle, she wanted him. Nathaniel's blood warmed and slowed as he stepped nearer.

"Husband," she whispered, her voice husky.

"Wife," he replied, his voice raspy with need.

She tilted her head, her fingers reaching out to graze along his stubbled jaw. His breath caught and his heart kicked his ribcage. "Shall I shave?" he asked, hoping she would tell him not to bother.

Her fingers traced the dimple in his chin as she shook her head. "The only thing you have to do right now is come to bed."

He lifted her in his arms, his mouth seeking hers with unerring accuracy. "As you wish, my lady."

She leaned her head against her shoulder and smiled. "Do you suppose that being married will cool our ardor?" she asked, her fingers caressing his cheek.

Heart thundering as her fingers wandered down to his neck and the ties of his tunic, he carefully placed her on their bed. "If that happens, I'll demand Fergus unbind us immediately," he vowed, bending to kiss her.

Desire sparked through him, setting fire to his blood. His fingers began working on the ribbons of her nightdress, his mouth following. Need joined desire as he felt Anya's fingers sift through his hair, her body instinctively arching into him.

Stretched before him, she was everything he had ever wanted but believed he didn't deserve. He settled over her, resting on his arms as his lips found the dusky tip of her breast. He pulled gently with his teeth and her fingers stilled in his hair as she moaned softly. The heavy pull of desire gripped him, slowed his blood to a crawl of hot honey.

"Too many clothes," she complained softly as she arched her hips against him.

"Shall I remedy that, my lady?" he asked, raising his head with a quirk of lips.

"Please," she replied breathlessly.

He stripped quickly and then returned to her to help remove her gown. He tossed it aside before kneeling and running his palms along her ribs, up until they curled around her breasts, thumbs gently rubbing her erect nipples. He lowered his lips and captured first one and then the other in a series of soft, moist kisses. Her breath caught and then came out in a low moan.

He felt her fingers trailing along his shoulders, down his back and she rocked against him, turning his self-control into shreds. His heart thudded against his ribs as he continued his caresses, his erection pulsing when her fingers found it and wrapped themselves around its engorged length.

"Anya," he warned, his voice husky and tremulous.

"Nathaniel," she mocked, her fingers moving tenderly along his shaft. "Please," she whispered against his hot skin. "I need you," she continued, her lips moving from his throat to his ear, where her tongue traced a delicate kiss that made his heart double its quickened pace.

He positioned himself, leaning up on his elbows as her legs wrapped around him, holding him close. Damp heat tantalized his erection and it pulsed against her before her fingers moved again, guiding him.

Sheathed inside her, he knew a moment of unfettered joy, knew a sense of being home that he had never experienced before until he'd met her. Now, slowly moving within her velvet heat, it filled him, expanding his mind and heart until he had a need to shout it aloud.

She moved with him, matching thrust for thrust and her words tumbled from her like water over stones. "I love you, Nathaniel. You are my husband. My heart. My soul."

As their tempo increased, he felt the growing tautness of muscles, heart and blood striving for release. Slanting his head, he found her lips and held them with his, pinning them together as their bodies danced. His fingers found her bud and circled it, mimicking their movements and she gave a ragged cry.

They hung on the edge of the precipice, together, their eyes locked on each other, not daring to move. The moment stretched and their gazes held, an infinite moment out of time when they were truly one. Beyond joy, beyond even time itself, they clung to the edge and knew the heart and soul of the other. Nathaniel took that moment into himself and knew that he would never experience so powerful a bond again.

And then time moved and so did they. He heard her cry of release and only then, as her muscles quivered and tightened around his shaft, did he allow his own release to shatter through him, her name on his lips in fervent appreciation of her gifts to him.

"I love you," he whispered long minutes later, when his breathing had returned to normal and his heart beat calmly once again.

"And I you, husband."

He fell asleep holding her, drifting off in mid-thought.

**~~~oOo~~~**

_She stood on the edge of the precipice, her hair as bright as liquid fire under the midday sun, and whipped to a frenzy by the sharp wind. Her arms were extended and she turned to him, her smile radiant in its happiness and her eyes as blue as the sky that framed her. _

"_What a gorgeous day! You can see to the ends of the world!" she exclaimed, joy piercing the wind's shriek._

"_Anya, you're too close to the edge. Move away," he begged, inching closer. His palms were sweating. He wouldn't be able to save her if she slipped off the edge. His heart slammed into his chest._

"_With this wind it feels as if I could fly … just step off and have the wind carry me across the sea. Wouldn't that be an adventure?" she teased, her smile as bright as the day._

"_Anya, people can't fly. We don't have wings." His voice shook with his fear that she would plummet to her death. He couldn't bear it if she left him. He reached out a hand that shook as the wind turned cold and a cloud passed before the sun, casting deep shadows across the ramparts._

"_Don't be such a coward. Watch and learn!" she cried gaily, a hint of mockery in her voice as she leapt forward, arms wide open._

_His scream echoed back to him as he lunged for her, his fingers stretching to grab the flutter of her skirt, but it was too late. He closed his eyes, shock robbing him of voice and breath. He sank to his knees and cried out for her but the only answer was the shriek of the wind as it pushed against the stone. _

_Heart pounding, body stiff with shock, he forced himself to the edge of the parapet and looked over the low stone wall. A scream tore from his raw throat, and then another, over and over and …_

_**Wake up! Wake up and stop this immediately! **_

_Anders blinked and sat up, his throat tight from the scream that hovered there, waiting for release. "What do you know of this, Justice?" he demanded, his voice shamefully tremulous. He huddled beneath his blanket, cold to his marrow. _

_Silence settled thickly in the small room as the nightmare faded, leaving behind only the stench of sweat and fear. Justice remained quiet, and for a moment Anders allowed himself to hope the spirit had departed. Gradually, he relaxed tense muscles and let go of his fear. Finally, he closed his eyes and slept._

**~~~oOo~~~**

"The time draws nigh."

Justinia the Fifth, Her Divine Holiness of the Chantry, Keeper of the Faith, stood with her back to the door, refusing to afford her unwanted guest any courtesy.

"How melodramatic of you," she replied coolly. "Were you as clever as you believe yourself to be you would worry more about your daughter and less about the events you cannot control. Celene's expedition is departing within a sennight."

A mocking laugh was her only answer and when she turned, the room was empty. A shiver passed down her spine and she whispered, "Maker, it is time to stop this madness."

Silence was her only answer.

**A/N**: "_A Lusty Young Smith" was written by Thomas d'Urfey (1653-1723) in 1698. The first time I used this song was in "With Noble Intent" when Teagan and Fergus sang it for the dwarves of Orzammar. _


	49. Transitions

_**A/N:**__I can't even begin to explain the delays for this chapter but they resemble the 7 plagues of the apocalypse. ;) I offer an apology and a sincere promise to finish this story, and it's close to being finished now. Thank you for your patience and for sticking with it_**.  
><strong>_Oleander's One, you are fantastic and I thank you from the bottom of my heart._

**Transitions**

His ship docked in the bleak hours between midnight and dawn. The air was scented with jasmine and honeysuckle, cloying and heavy. He left the ship with a group of boisterous sailors who were ashore to celebrate the end of the voyage. Surrounded by the men, he was able to blend into the night and disappear as silently as a winter's night.

Hours later, far from the docks, Zevran Arainai forced himself into the ragged clothes of a beggar, grimacing as he rubbed dirt on his face and settled the cowl on his head. His tattoo was hidden, and with it his identity. It had been years since he had undergone such a transformation and for a moment he was reminded of his first meeting with Aedan, on a lonely stretch of road, wearing peasant garb.

A low laugh broke through his thoughts, which naturally turned to Aedan's brother. Ideas of how he would make Fergus pay for such an indignity briefly chased through him, bringing a pleased smiled and a shiver of anticipation before he shook them off and once again focused on the task before him.

Slipping silently into the crowd, head hung low, he made his way to the gates of the Grand Imperial Palace, taking note of the positions of the guards, searching for a weakness he could exploit once it was dark.

"Move away, scum!" a guard shouted, his voice tinny from behind his battle mask.

Bringing his voice down an octave, Zev whined as he tugged at his cowl and held out a filthy hand in the universal sign for begging.

"Move it before I cut it off!"

Zev jerked his hand back and with another whine, bowed and scraped as he edged away. Yes, Fergus would pay dearly for this. A smile flitted across his features and was gone as he slouched around to the far side of the palace, counting the number of steps it took, a habit of long standing. He committed it to memory, as he had the placement of the archers and the soldiers hidden in the shrubbery.

From the palace, he meandered along the side streets to the cathedral. It was only then that he realized he had blocked out the voices of the choir as they rose in song to the Maker. He snorted with a quick shake of his head. Wouldn't they be of better service if they helped the poor who lived in squalor just a few blocks away in tenements that were crumbling and infested with vermin?

His disgust nearly choked him until he was forced to take a deep breath. But a deep breath only made the smell from the tenements more apparent. _Braska!_ Why did it matter to him? But he knew. Living with Fergus and before that traveling with his brother through the Blight, had shown him who he truly was. Both experiences had given him the courage to live as himself, without the masks he had hidden behind for survival.

"You! You there! What are you about?"

A templar bore down on him and Zevran noticed the soft leather breastplate with a sly smile, hidden when he ducked his head and bowed. So much easier to slide a knife into leather than heavy plate. So kind of them, really. For a flash of time he was tempted to verbalize his thanks.

'Well, speak up! Or does a rat have your tongue?" the templar bellowed, laughing at his own humor. Zevran's hand twitched, wanted to slide down to his side pocket and withdraw the knife there, to send a message to this ignorant filth and the others like him, who abused and degraded those less fortunate.

Zevran shrugged and touched his forelock, backing away. Rather than try and disguise his disgust, he forced himself to melt into the crowd. As he wandered the twisting alleyways, his mind became absorbed with sifting through his new-found knowledge, sorting through the palace security and that of the cathedral and monastery.

If he needed to get into the monastery to kill Anora he could, but it would be easier if he could prevail on a certain witch of the wilds to help. Or perhaps he would take advantage of Anya's brother. She had assured him that he couldn't trust her father, but her brother would help if he mentioned a code word that was familiar only to a very few.

Of course if he had time, he might try to infiltrate the Brotherhood of the Wolf. He had always been curious about the Crows' chief rival in the assassination business. If he ingratiated himself with Enrique Caron and let his identity be known he was sure the man would accept him. Still, from what Anya had told him, her brother seemed the more expedient choice, if Morrigan refused to assist him.

The question was, what would Morrigan want in return? "Ah, my dear raven-haired beauty, what is your game, eh?" he wondered aloud.

After his reconnaissance was complete, he found his way to a small, dimly lit tavern. A table in the far corner provided privacy and he sat nursing a pint of warm ale and listening to local gossip. Apparently the struggle for control of Orlais was rapidly degenerating into civil war. The lines drawn up were, he thought bitterly, a reflection of the realities of poverty and excess. Celene and her desire to elevate the masses through education and work programs, against a group of nobles who were determined to stay on top and keep the downtrodden where they were.

Inevitably, the coming civil war in Orlais would spread across the border, especially if de Chalons and Anora were still united in their desire to conquer Ferelden. Any plans to take his time and infiltrate the Wolves were scrapped as he listened to the low hum of hatred and fear that permeated the tavern.

He would have to work quickly to get the former queen out of the country before the war became open and bloody. Or, barring that, he would have to eliminate her and return with proof of her perfidy in time for the Landsmeet to see Fergus crowned. It was the only way to ensure Ferelden's safety.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The dream lingered like morning mist on a river, clinging to the shadows in her mind. Sliding her legs off the bed, she moved silently to the window, waiting for the sun to rise and banish the strange lure of the dream. Leaning her forehead against the cool window pane, she tried to understand what the dream meant. Why had she dreamed of Justice? What did the warning mean? Was it just her subconscious signaling the need for caution? Was it something more sinister? Her thoughts coiled around her unanswered questions and she blew out a breath, fogging the glass, her unease turning into a darker emotion.

"Anya?"

Thick and raspy with sleep, Nathaniel's voice stole into her thoughts, robbing them of their power. She blinked and turned away from the befogged window. "Go back to sleep," she encouraged softly.

"Bad dreams?" he asked, and his voice was less sleepy. She heard the rustle of bed linens as he rose, and then the soft padding of his feet on the floor as he moved to her. "Darkspawn or man?" he asked, looping an arm around her to pull her close.

Nestled into him, she felt a wave of warmth sweep into her. Tense muscles loosened as she breathed his scent and felt his strength. "Spirits," she answered, refusing to say more, refusing to give the dream any credence. And yet … there was a warning there, a sense of urgency to leave for Kirkwall as quickly as possible.

"I will miss this place, but I think it is time to leave. Today, if possible." The resolve in her voice was unmistakable and she felt the determination course through her, almost chasing way the remnants of the dream. Almost. But still they lingered, fingers of dread scraping at her scalp and raising goosebumps. "Tomorrow at the latest," she added grimly.

She felt Nathaniel's hands spanning her waist as he turned her to face him, dropping a kiss on her lips. "Are you telling me that our honeymoon is over?" he asked finally, his voice husky now for other reasons.

Was she? It was hardly romantic and yet the need to be gone surged like a restless wave and she sighed against his lips, searching for a light tone. "Not over, simply relocating," she murmured.

He stepped back, studying her, a frown forming on dark brows. "What is it, Anya?"

"A dream. Just a dream and yet so real I felt as though Justice stood beside me, speaking." Voice as shaky as a palsied old woman, Anya cleared her throat and tried again. "He was warning me about Anders and some sort of trouble."

She felt Nathaniel stiffen, his expression cold and hard. "Anders and trouble seem to go together."

She rubbed her temples where a headache was trying to take hold, no doubt from the quickly shifting emotions brought about by the mention of Anders. "Yes, and I remember the mandate from on high, as well as from King Alistair, but I think we need to rein him in by whatever means necessary. He's dangerous at the best of times and I realize that Justice couldn't possibly have been here but I have this horrible feeling that the message was real."

"I'll send someone to the docks this morning. Hopefully, we'll be able to sail on the evening tide. Are you ready to leave all this behind with the knowledge that we may not be back?"

Was she? A shudder ran through her and she reached for Nathaniel's hands, her fingers seeking and finding comfort as he wrapped his own calloused fingers around hers, warm and reassuring. "Of course. Having you to myself is all part of the plan," she teased, voice slightly breathless.

"We'll have to pack light and have Sigrun send the rest once we settle somewhere."

Pack light? How could she stand to leave this life she had carved out at the Vigil, among her family of Wardens? She nodded, unable to speak. Somehow they would discover what was happening in time to stop it. They had to. And yet, even as she thought that a shiver chased along her spine; she wondered if it wasn't too late to stop whatever madness was growing. _Just like Orlais_. The thought whispered through her mind, bitter and dark.

Going to the window, she opened it; the rush of cool morning air was scented with rain. A damp wind blew across her skin, mournful and low.

"_Hurry," _it seemed to urge and she turned to begin the task of packing.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Margaret swept into the room, her skirt a silken rustle of sound as she moved. Fenris and Varric glanced up from their card game before Fenris dropped his cards, quickly moving to her side.

"What is it? You are shaking."

She was startled to realize she _was_ shaking and she took a deep breath. Even her exhalation was shaky and she felt a wild impulse to laugh at herself.

"Hawke?" Varric asked, reaching automatically for Bianca.

She waved him back to his seat and came to sit down at the table, taking up Fenris's goblet of wine and drinking deeply. "I am so angry I nearly set both Meredith and Orsino on fire," she admitted with a wobbly laugh. She set the goblet back on the table and gripped her hands tightly. "They were both inciting the crowds in the market again and nobody seems to want to stop them. Elthina is useless and worse than useless. Her silence is as good as permission, and there is still no viscount to set things to rights. What can Elthina be thinking? And where is the Divine's agent? Shouldn't she care about what's happening here?"

"My spies tell me she left three days ago, aboard the _Charybdis_."

"No doubt bound for Val Royeaux," she muttered in disgust. "Of what possible purpose was her visit?"

"You mean besides gifting that rather odd sword to Merry ol' Meredith?" Varric asked, finally gathering the cards and setting them aside. "I don't know, Hawke. Seems like she was here to test your mettle. And where did she get that red lyrium? We all know how crazy that can make a person."

"That is not a happy thought. Did your spies follow her?"

"For all the good it will do us. My network doesn't stretch to all of Thedas, you know. It will take some time for a report to get back to us."

Fenris clasped her hand in his, his thumb rubbing lightly across her knuckles in soothing circles, but his words were not reassuring. "I do not believe that time is something we have an abundance of."

"I am going to take Sebastian and meet with Elthina. At the very least she needs to appoint a viscount and insist that Meredith support him."

"I shall accompany you. There is strength in numbers, I believe you have said on several occasions," Fenris replied calmly.

As much as she wanted him by her side, she shook her head. "Sometimes numbers only fuel resentments and right now we can't afford to antagonize anyone, least of all Grand Cleric Elthina and her templars."

A dark brow rose at her and green eyes darkened. "I assure you, Margaret, I can be quite diplomatic when the occasion demands it."

She felt a smile tug at her lips, an unexpected surprise that eased the tension flowing in her blood. "Indeed, Fenris, I don't doubt it. But truly, I need you and Varric to go to Darktown and get a feel for what's going on there."

"Very well," he replied stiffly, relenting only as he moved to the door. "Be careful. I do not know how much longer your papers or your reputation will keep you safe."

She blinked in surprise at the gruff concern in his voice and the smile hinted at earlier bloomed brightly on her lips. "Always," she promised and watched them leave before hurrying upstairs to change.

She shrugged into a prim, dark dress and pulled her hair into a neat twist at the nape of her neck. She would be careful, but Meredith and Orsino were long past being careful. Or caring about the city's precarious peace. An explosion was coming, a time when their emotions would detonate; she could feel it in the bitterness that clung to both of them, as thick as a killing fog. Sooner or later one would incite the other to violence in front of a wary, frightened crowd and the damage would be done.

The walk to the chantry did little to diminish her fear. She entered the semi-darkness and stopped by the door to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Several sisters greeted her in deferential whispers and she nodded to each, her eyes searching for Sebastian.

He knelt before the statue of Andraste, his lips moving silently in prayer. She hesitated to disturb him but as she watched, he rose and moved away from the altar. His armor caught the candlelight, glowing - a bright and steadfast reminder of his faith.

"Hawke, what brings you here?" he asked softly, moving to take her elbow as he guided her into an antechamber.

She briefly explained her mission and felt her heart sink as he shook his head. "She believes the Maker will determine the fate of Kirkwall."

"She will watch the city ignite?"

"She believes in the power of Divine Intervention."

A knot of disbelief formed in her throat, expelled in a low, derisive laugh. "Leliana is proof that the Maker will not intervene and the Divine's intervention leaves much to be desired."

"What will you have me do, Margaret? How can I fight her faith?"

Margaret unceremoniously yanked him into the sacristy and thrust him toward the woman bowed in silent prayer. "By being ruthlessly honest. Faith will not protect her congregation from war."

"What is it, my children?" Elthina asked, smiling benignly at them.

Margaret felt her anger and fear twist and coalesce into a hard, hot knot in her stomach. "Have you spoken to the nobles about appointing Bran as the viscount?" she asked baldly, forgoing the social niceties.

"They have no objection, but Meredith feels it would be better to –"

"There is no time, Your Grace. The city needs a leader and he is the most logical choice. We've waited months for Meredith to either choose someone herself or agree to our choice. You have the ability to force her to accept Bran. I urge you to do so immediately."

The older woman's solemn gray gaze settled on Sebastian. "And you agree with the Champion?"

Anxiety clouded Sebastian's brow and Margaret felt a stirring of sympathy for the young man; her breath held as she awaited his response. After several long moments, he said quietly, but firmly, "Regretfully, I must agree with Lady Margaret, Your Grace. The situation is dire and must be rectified quickly."

The breath that had been held tightly in Margaret's chest released in a long, soft sigh and she pressed her advantage. "A few words from you will ease the transition and restore peace of mind," she encouraged.

"Very well, I will meet with Meredith tomorrow. However, should she have compelling reasons against him, I am honor bound to give such words credence."

"I would very much like to be there for the meeting, Your Grace," Margaret replied firmly.

"And so you shall be, child. Be here by eleven of the clock. Sebastian, you will also attend. It is time you were privy to such proceedings. You will need to know how to go about such things when you return to Starkhaven and take your rightful place."

The color drained from Sebastian's cheeks, leaving him as white as his armor and making his eyes even bluer than normal. "I – I haven't determined that I will do so, Your Grace. The Chantry is my –"

"Haven, Sebastian. But if I am to be forced from my sanctuary, I feel it only right that you are as well. When the matter of the viscount is settled, we will discuss this further."

"I – but – I – yes, Your Grace."

As they left the chantry, Margaret slipped her hand in his and squeezed it. "You will have support, Sebastian, should you request it, but she's right. It's time you returned to Starkhaven and rescued the citizens from your cousin's ineptitude."

"Aye, Margaret, but I feel like my life is here. I haven't been back in so many years I've no idea who will welcome me and who won't. Have I the right to create havoc there after years of peace?"

"Not only do you have the right, you have the moral obligation, Sebastian," she replied firmly, squeezing his hand again. "But you have your faith and your friends to help you get through it."

"Aye," he agreed glumly as they made their way back to the Amell mansion.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Once again, Anya found her way to the upper ramparts. The morning was breathlessly beautiful. Wispy white clouds curled like beckoning fingers in the crystal purity of the sky; a promise of favoring winds on the Waking Sea. There was something almost hopeful about the sky. The low, sweet song of wind against ancient stone added to that sense of optimism. Anya forced herself to relax her shoulders and enjoy the solitary moment.

Below her awaited her Wardens, Varel and Fergus, all gathered in the courtyard for the moment when she officially stepped down as Arlessa Anya and promoted Sigrun to Commander of the Grey of Ferelden. Taking a deep breath of the salt-laden air, she realized with a certain degree of sorrow, that she would miss the Vigil and its people more than she had ever missed Orlais and her family.

Before Zevran had left for Orlais, she had given him her brother's directions and a letter of introduction in case the elf found himself in trouble. She knew she could count on Raoul, even if he was the only Orlesian she could trust. Zevran had taken the letter and looked into her eyes before smiling provocatively.

"Ah, my dear Anya, you must learn that your family is not necessarily the one bound by blood, but rather by love," he had told her, his voice a whisper of velvet and warmth.

She stared down at the gathering again and exhaled slowly. Her family waited for her. The sooner she departed, the easier it would be for Sigrun, but the ache in her chest threatened to squeeze her heart. Halting steps took her down the winding staircase and along the corridor to her room. She removed the commander's medallion she had worn with such pride and placed it in its velvet-lined box.

The ceremony was short and the only surprise was Sigrun's insistence that Flynne and Carver act as Warden Attachés, accompanying Anya and Nathaniel on their travels. Carver whooped exuberantly and Flynne winked at her. No amount of arguing budged Sigrun from the decision and Anya admitted to Nathaniel that she was relieved to have them along. Their travels had somehow bound them all and it made her departure less painful.

Tears trembled on her lashes but she refused to allow them to fall as she bade Varel good-bye. She clung to him for long moments, drawing strength from his steadying presence.

"You are everything a daughter could ask for in a father, Varel. I will take your lessons with me wherever I go."

With that, she stepped back, saluted her friends and allowed Nathaniel to help her into the saddle.

She did not look back. She did not dare.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"You are sure, Leliana?"

"Quite sure, your Grace. It is only a matter of weeks now, I believe."

"And you have ensured that?"

"Yes, your Grace. I delivered the sword, as you instructed. I also assisted the mage in finding the materials necessary for his role in the upcoming events."

"Excellent, my dear child. You are a true daughter of Andraste."

"I live to serve the Chantry."

"Thank you, Leliana. That will be all. Go and get some rest, child. You look exhausted."

Dorothea watched the slender redhead depart, a slight frown marring her features. Finally, she turned to a shadowy corner of her office and spoke softly. "You realize that should Kirkwall's mages fail, a rebellion will not be possible?"

"Why, Dorothea, is that doubt I hear in your voice? My, my, such an unnerving sound."

The Divine spun on her heel, her expression grim. "You may pretend this is all a game, Flemeth, but there is too much at stake for such infantile humor."

Flemeth's gold eyes narrowed but her smile didn't falter. "What's this? Fear in my dear sister's eyes?"

"We are not, strictly speaking, sisters," Dorothea was goaded into replying. "And I will thank you not to ignore the need for caution."

Laughter, cold and sharp, filled the antechamber. "Dear me, you sound positively prim and grim. Such an interesting combination, my dear."

"Need I remind you that your daughter is about to depart the city in search of a lost group of dragons? Her actions could have more impact than you are willing to admit."

"How very little faith you have in your Maker, in mages, in the power of the Fade … and, more importantly, in me."

Dorothea, the Divine Justinia the Fifth, bowed her head, her voice the merest whisper. "You will not be happy until you have torn the Veil asunder and flung us all into the Void."

"I will not be happy until a terrible wrong has been righted, my dear, nothing more."

"But at what cost? And if Morrigan ever understands her true power, what then?"

"You always were overly dramatic, Sister. What makes you think that Morrigan isn't aware of her true power? She is my daughter and I taught her well. When the time is at hand, she will stand beside us."

"When the time is at hand? Was it not at hand during the Blight? Did you not swear to me, to the others, that your daughter would succeed in securing the soul of an Old God? And yet she did not, nor were we successful in earlier Blights."

For a moment, Dorothea feared she had pushed Flemeth too far. The woman's gold eyes became dark and hard but her voice, when she spoke, was full of amusement. "Really, my dear, you are such a tiresome creature. I have complete faith in my daughter to perform her role to perfection. Even if she doesn't understand what role that is."

With her eyes closed and head bowed, the Holy Divine prayed. When her prayer concluded, she opened her eyes to discover she was, once again, alone. A shiver traced along the contours of her spine.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Anya was aware of the tension the moment the boat docked in Kirkwall. The very air seemed tainted with it, and there were templars at every corner as well as walking silently along the narrow streets and alleyways.

"Flynne, come walk with me," Anya ordered softly. One hand rested lightly on his arm and the other crept to the hilt of her short sword.

"Maker's breath," Carver hissed as a templar moved towards them.

"Halt!" the templar ordered, drawing his weapon and shield, his sword point coming to rest against Flynne's chest.

With a snick of forged steel streaking along tooled leather, she withdrew her sword. The motion was swift, smooth, practiced. That she couldn't actually sustain a sword fight with her twisted leg didn't prevent her from bringing the weapon to within a hair's breadth of the templar.

"By order of Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard, this _mage_ will report to the Gallows immediately," he barked officiously, ignoring her sword as if it were no more bothersome than a mosquito.

Anya edged the sword closer until the cold, tempered steel lay along the templar's pasty skin. "This _mage_ is a Grey Warden, exempt from templar and chantry laws," she hissed in reply. "Touch him at your own peril."

The sword point wavered and then dropped away. "We are required to register all mages, regardless of affiliations."

"You need only know that his name is Flynne and he is a Grey Warden. If your knight-commander has a problem with that, she can find us at the home of Margaret Hawke. I believe you know her as the Champion of Kirkwall?"

A flush crept into the young templar's face but he doggedly remained in front of them, his sword still out of its scabbard.

"Hastings, what seems to be the trouble?" another templar called. Anya studied him and realized it was a knight-captain.

"Knight-Captain Cullen! I – that is – " the younger templar sputtered, his flush deepening.

"He was merely doing his duty, although a bit more zealously than I am used to, Knight-Captain. In the heat of the moment, he forgot that Wardens are exempt from templar mandates," Anya interrupted with a grave smile. There was no reason to antagonize the templars, at least not until she'd had time to assess the situation.

"That will be all, Hastings. Go relieve Tyler."

"Yes, ser!"

"Thank you, Knight-Captain, for your timely intervention," she said, her gaze settling on his square-cut face. "You are familiar to me. Have we met before?"

"I doubt it, Lady… ?"

"Anya Caron."

"You are Orlesian," he announced, his eyes narrowing.

"And you are Fereldan. We are both far from home."

Carver spoke up, his face flushing. "Don't be a colossal jerk, Cullen," he growled.

"Carver?"

Anya eyed the two, raising her brows and glancing quickly at Nathaniel, who was trying not to smirk. It was obvious that Cullen and Carver had been, at the very least, friends at some point. And possibly more, if Carver's blush was any indication.

"_Warden_ Carver," Carver announced unnecessarily as he wore his gleaming Warden plate with its blue gambeson and gryphon heraldry.

"Your sister said you'd joined the Wardens but I –"

"Yes, well, I hadn't any choice, you see, but it was for the best. I'd never have been happy as a templar."

"Well, isn't this all very enlightening," Flynne said, and there was a broad stroke of humor in his voice, in his grin, and in the teasing light in his blue eyes.

"And interesting, but perhaps now is not the best time for this? I would ask, Ser Cullen, what is going on here? The city seems to be under siege by the templars."

"It hasn't come to that, but I fear that it may very soon. I will escort you to your destination. Which is … ?"

"Where else but the Amell mansion, Cullen?" Carver asked, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

As they walked along the nearly deserted streets, Cullen explained that there was a group of mages bent on rebellion. They had caused all manner of problems and it was for everyone's protection that the templars now patrolled the streets.

"Bollocks," Carver snorted. "Why doesn't the new viscount put the city guard on the streets? The templars shouldn't be out in force, it'll only cause more unrest."

"From your mouth to Meredith's ears," Cullen muttered. He cleared his throat. "The truth is more complicated. The leaders and nobles are meeting at this moment to elect the new viscount, Seneschal Bran."

"There hasn't been a viscount since Marlowe Dumar's death?" Anya asked, shocked to hear the news. In the absence of leadership often came anarchy. No wonder the templars were out in force. Or was there more to the matter?

"No. In the interim Knight-Commander Meredith has overseen the duties of the viscount."

Carver whistled. "That bitter old cow?"

Snorting back a wayward laugh, Anya chided him and then asked, "And she ordered the forcible detainment of visiting mages?"

"It is her duty to maintain peace and ensure the safety of all of Kirkwall's citizens."

"Don't you mean everyone except mages? Is Margaret locked up now too?" Carver asked, his voice vibrating with anger.

"She is exempt. For the moment."

Anya laid a restraining hand on Carver's arm. "Thank you for the escort, Ser Cullen, but I see the mansion from here and feel confident we will arrive there safely."

It was obvious now why her sense of urgency had conjured up a vision of Justice. The air was thick with mistrust and fear and a simmering anger. She was sure Anders was a large part of the reason why and felt the old familiar regret roiling in her. Stumbling on the steps, her hip and leg jerked painfully as she caught herself, feeling Nathaniel's hand at her elbow, the strength of his fingers holding her upright until she regained her balance.

Maker, how would she ever find the strength to seek Anders out and finish what he had started so long ago? And finish it she must.


	50. A Rising Tide

**A/N**_**: **__I have no excuse for the delay in posting except that the health issues mounted up and smothered my muse. A trip to the British Isle revived the muse (and me!) and I hope to have this story completed shortly. I appreciate all those who are still following along and those who have gently nudged me and encouraged me. _

_And for those who are trying to remember what's going on: Anya, after relinquishing her arling and wardens to Sigrun, has returned to Kirkwall to bring Anders to justice and help calm the situation there. With her are Nathaniel, Carver and Flynne. Zevran, at the behest of Fergus, has gone to Orlais to take care of a few problems there. Fergus has called a Landsmeet to unseat Alistair and be crowned king. _

_Special thank you to Oleander's One for her beta, her friendship and her general awesomeness. Thank you, sweet lady!_

**A Rising Tide **

Opulence greeted him in every direction. From the heavy gold candle holders to the gem encrusted holy chalice to the ornate silver and gold sconces he was surrounded by an ostentatious display of wealth. For a man who seen opulence in every royal house in Thedas, this was obscenely lavish. He would be amused by such displays if he hadn't seen the poor and starving in the back alleys not far from the Grand Cathedral. Now he felt a roiling disgust that surprised him with its intensity. He could only blame his time with Aedan and now Fergus for offering him a different view of the world.

Crossing the peaceful courtyards which were filled with carefully manicured and trimmed shrubs and flowers, he entered the monastery. Adjusting the pale peach wimple and coif that hid his tattoo and, hopefully, his masculinity, he stopped for a minute to get his bearings. The long snaking corridors were dark, all opulence gone as the plain cells of the holy sisters and brothers of the Grand Cathedral of the Divine crowded the long hallway. Obviously the gold and silver and jewels were reserved for the public rooms and, he thought cynically, those high within the hierarchy of the Chantry.

Somewhere nearby was his quarry and he briefly touched his knife, stopping as a group of young brothers passed without speaking. With his head bowed, he folded his hands in an imitation of piety and made his way along the shadowed corridors of the convent, pausing to quietly open doors along his way. Unsurprisingly most were unlocked, for who among the holy believed themselves at risk from thieves?

"Ah, Fergus, if only you could see me. What humor you could find in this," he whispered to himself, a fleeting smile softening his features.

When he came to the locked door he removed his lock-picking tools with practiced ease. A memory caught and held him still for long moments. Aedan, standing behind him and guiding his fingers as they probed the practice lock, his face lit with humor as he teased the lock open. If Aedan could see him now, he would join his brother in laughing at the figure of Zevran Arainai in full Chantry regalia picking a lock with such ease. Ah, how times had changed.

After a moment of silent twisting, the lock gave way with a quiet click and he opened the door to a small room, devoid of any color or softness. Even the light streaming in from the high window did nothing to relieve the drabness.

He slipped inside, his smile returning. On the bed, sleeping peacefully, was his first order of business. He crept closer, one hand on the hilt of the dagger tucked into a voluminous pocket and one hand moving towards the woman's mouths

As soon as his fingers gripped her cheeks, pinching tightly to prevent her screaming, he leaned down and whispered, "Naughty, naughty, Anora. The future king of Ferelden is not happy with your lurid attempts to overset a fragile country. Disloyalty seems a family trait, yes?"

Frantic eyes widened and met his. The former queen of Ferelden struggled against him and he could see her willing herself to be calm, the rise and fall of her chest gradually slowing as a cultivated look of icy disdain appeared on her delicate features.

She nodded briskly and he spoke again. "Scream once and all they will find is your dead body. Should you die, my job becomes much easier."

She nodded again, the motion slow and controlled. He eased his hand away from her mouth and then pulled out a scroll, bearing the Cousland seal. "I suggest you read this and then we will discuss your options."

A part of him admired her calm and cool manner, her blue eyes sharp and assessing as she read the missive. He silently read along with her, knowing by heart what Fergus had written, what he had implied and even what he had lied about.

_Anora, _

_This farce has gone on long enough. We are aware that you are working with de Chalons to invade Ferelden in the hope that you will be a puppet queen to Orlais. It won't happen. We have already thwarted the plot to destroy Amaranthine's ships in the hope that your Orlesian armada would sail unobstructed into Denerim. Pentaghast was most forthcoming before he died. Without him to pay the Felicisima Armada, the threat is neutralized and shipping has already resumed. Additionally, a rather large fortification, complete with soldiers and sailors, now exists on Brandel's Reach. I can only assume that you and de Chalons offered up the mineral rights along the border in order to obtain assistance from Nevarra? Pentaghast was a fool to believe that would happen but he can hardly protest now, can he? _

_As to the childish need to undermine Alistair's authority … that played into my hands, not yours. I have called a Landsmeet and have been assured by most of the nobles that I will be the next king. I suppose I should thank you for that, and so I will by offering you two choices. You can marry me and become queen in name only, as well the royal receptacle for my children, or you can refuse and sacrifice yourself for the good of Ferelden. I leave it in your hands but rest assured that you will never hold a position of power or authority again. _

_This ends now._

_Fergus_

She had once been a formidable enemy but now she was merely a woman on the sidelines, throwing a dozen knives without skill in the hope that one would land. Desperation lurked in the shadows. Zevran could smell it on her, yet she spoke with a haughty distaste once she had finished reading.

"I have no choice but to agree to this. Get me that quill and it shall be done. But I warn you, Elf, I will not tolerate your presence once I have resumed my rightful place."

Zevran grinned. "A foolish admission, my dear _former_ queen, as well as a costly one."

Panic and fear flashed briefly in cold blue eyes and in that instant, he saw how fragile was her façade. A fleeting stir of pity fluttered in him and then he smiled again, watching the pride seeping back into her. "Should you issue such an ultimatum to the future king, I do not believe _your_ future will be rosy."

For a moment, he thought she would argue. The struggle was apparent in the tightening of her jaw, the infinitesimal narrowing of her eyes and the curl of fingers wishing to form fists. With an effort he could not help but admire, she came to terms with her bleak future. Her head high, she became resolute in voice and manner. "Then I have no choice but to accept Fergus's request."

"Oh, you have choices, my dear, just none as bright."

With a shudder, she looked away. "Bright, indeed," she said in a flat voice.

A smiled lurked playfully on his lips and he plucked up the signed letter with a flourish. "I will return tonight. Be prepared to travel. And I warn you to be silent. I am not without friends and influence, even here. You never know what crow might be listening to you."

Without another word he left, the smile still lingering on his lips as he made his way to the Imperial Palace

**~~~oOo~~~**

She was dancing, the music soft as she dipped and spun first to one partner and then the next. Anticipation fluttered in her stomach and pounded in her heart. She smiled, twirling gracefully, her hand open, fingers extended in search of her next partner, feeling as light and lithe as spring grass swaying in a gentle breeze. Then she saw her partner's face, eyes widen in horror and she followed his gaze down until she saw the bloody stump where her leg should be and suddenly she was falling.

With a gasp, Anya awoke, sticky with sweat and heart pounding. Glancing at Nathaniel, sleeping peacefully beside her with his dark hair spilling across the pillow, she felt the horror begin to fade. The ache in her hip and leg, however, remained, and with a disgruntled sigh, she rose and limped across the room before quietly stepping onto the cool stones of the balcony.

Dawn was a beautifully gowned maiden awaiting her first ball. Pale peach and soft violet stretched daintily into the pearl sky. Anya breathed in deeply of the salt-clad air, trying to push aside the last remnants of the nightmare.

"Anya? What are you doing up so early?" Nathaniel asked, his voice rumbling with sleep. Leaning against the balustrade to take the weight off her hip, Anya reached out for his hand, grateful for his presence.

"After all this time trying to prevent it, it's hard to believe war is nipping at our heels," she murmured, reluctant to face the truth that seemed so at odds with the soft morning sky. Now awash in pinks and tangerines, hints of gold teasing the growing expanse of deepening blue, the morning seemed sweetly innocent and Anya felt a smile forming as dawn gave way to morning. "Yet what else can we do but try to prevent it, even if we still aren't sure who we're at war with."

"Go to the Gallows and it quickly becomes clear," Nathaniel replied quietly. "Not that I want to leave our room. Ever."

Her smile grew as he put his arms around her, pulling her against him. "If only the Maker actually listened to us."

"Why should He when nobody else bothers?"

She ignored the edge of frustration in Nathaniel's voice and moved back into their room, a shiver coming unexpectedly to race down her spine. Why, indeed? With all she had already learned, it seemed as though the world was run by madmen and she merely a pawn trying ineffectually to stymie them. And with each misstep and each failed mission, the world tilted even more precariously on its axis. Like her dancing ability, she reflected, a grimace pulling at her lips.

Gathering up her armor, she began to buckle into it. Now was not the time to belabor the point of who listened and who did not. Now was not the time for light dresses and long-winded teas where little was discussed and even less decided. Now was the time to sort through the minutiae and set a safe course. Somehow. But even as she thought that, she felt it was somehow too late to stop the spiraling events she was caught up in.

She sent a reluctant Nathaniel out to talk with Varric about the mood of the city, taking herself in the opposite direction. Flynne and Carver had stayed at the Amell estate and she knew her first stop must be a private meeting with Margaret.

Already, long golden beams danced playfully on the facades of the buildings, promising a bright, balmy day. Anya could only hope that it augured well for her meeting. Maybe Margaret's concerns were exaggerated. Perhaps her alarm was unnecessary. But even in the short walk to the Amell mansion from the hotel she heard the grumbling of merchants and citizens alike. Unrest was a rampant wave rushing to shore.

Carver and Flynne were still seated at breakfast, their plates heaped with a rich assortment of breakfast fare. Anya's stomach rumbled but her throat tightened at the thought of food. As she stepped into the room, Carver jumped up, coming to attention but she waved him back into his chair.

"I'm here to speak with your sister, not inspect you," she said with a brief smile. "Sit and be at ease. Flynne," she greeted and then turned to the beautiful woman sitting before a small plate of dry toast and a cup of tea.

"Good morning, Champion," she greeted Margaret.

"I've been waiting for you," the woman replied and rose gracefully, carefully setting her napkin beside her plate. "We can talk in the study."

Anya's nerves tightened as she felt the tension in Margaret. Following her down a well-lit hallway, she entered the room a step behind the woman.

"I need to explain about Anders," Margaret sighed. She carefully withdrew the dagger Anya had given her years earlier and laid it gently on the table between them. Green eyes locked with blue and Anya nodded in understanding. She reached down and plucked up the dagger, sliding it into her pocket, leaning forward to listen to Margaret's quiet voice reciting the facts.

It took Margaret nearly an hour to finish her recitation. "And, since his breakdown, he has kept to himself and moved back into his clinic. Varric's people keep him under surveillance as much as they can but there are so many tunnels in Darktown, so many places to escape notice. I don't know what he's thinking or planning, but he's so twisted and broken that I am convinced he's a danger to the city. And this city is on the verge, believe me. The last thing needed is Anders and his manifesto on the rights of mages and the tyranny of the Chantry. "

Bowing her head, Anya was nearly overwhelmed by a strong rush of guilt. She should have ignored her orders and followed the dictates of her own mind and heart. She should have hunted him down and forced him to take his Calling immediately, or failing that, he should have hanged for murder.

"Is he responsible for the tension in the city? The air is thick with it and the templars are ready to arrest Grey Wardens," she added, trying to keep the bitterness at bay, but it was there in the deepest recesses of her heart.

"I think so, but made worse by Orsino and Meredith. And Sister Leliana's visit on behalf of the Divine helped not one whit. In fact, I believe she encouraged the Grand Cleric's reticence in calming both sides."

"Tell me more about this Leliana. Is she the one who traveled with Aedan and Alistair during the Blight?"

"That is what she claims and I have no reason to doubt it. She came to test our resolve, or so it appeared, and she refused to do anything to lessen the tensions. In fact, she gave Meredith a new greatsword and spent some time with Orsino and several mages before she left. She claims to be the left hand of the Divine."

"How singular. Did the tensions increase or decrease after her visits?"

She watched the frown grow, knitting Margaret's golden brows. "I hadn't thought of it in those terms, but I'd have to say they increased. Or at least the confrontations between Orsino and Meredith have increased in frequency and in acrimony. It's almost as if they are deliberately provoking one another."

"Perhaps we should speak to the new viscount. It seems to me that the templars take too much upon themselves in this city. What of the city guard?"

"They have been limited in their duties by Meredith. We're encouraging Elthina and Bran to increase their presence and to restrict the templars."

"Tell me about this gift … the greatsword? What does it look like?"

Margaret frowned, tapping her chin with her forefinger as she tried to recall. "An ordinary greatsword from the sound of it except it has a red glow about it. The only thing I've ever seen with a red glow is a lyrium we stumbled across in the Deep Roads. An artifact we found there contained red lyrium and it played havoc with my magic."

Fear trickled along Anya's nerves, teasing the hair on the back of her neck until it rose in defense. Of their own volition her hands curled into fists. "Is it possible Orsino was also given a gift containing red lyrium?" she asked, her voice squeezed and breathless.

"I don't know, but it is possible, I suppose. Why?"

"We need to see the viscount immediately. I suppose we should also speak with Elthina."

"Let us hope that at least one of them will listen to us."

With a groan, she stood, unconsciously kneading the stiff muscles that bunched at her hip from sitting too long. Margaret's magic flickered and glowed as a soothing spell wove around Anya and the cramping burn of muscle eased.

"Thank you," she said softly, offering a grateful smile.

Fenris awaited them, standing in the darkened foyer, offering to escort them and explaining that Flynne and Carver had gone in search of Varric and Nathaniel.

"We're off to see the viscount, Fenris. Join us?" Margaret invited. Anya smiled politely as he hesitated but then he smiled softly at the blonde mage.

"At your side, always," he replied softly.

The three of them left the mansion in perfect accord and made their way quickly to the keep and Viscount Bran's office.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Naughty Nate! You shouldn't have," Varric chided with a smirk.

Nathaniel looked down at the bottle of Nevarran whiskey and back at his friend, allowing a mocking grin. "I didn't. Anya's orders."

"Wow, you know how to make a dwarf feel like shit. But that's okay, my friend, we'll just ignore that ugly mug," Varric said, glancing down and addressing the bottle. He reached for it, caressing it before setting it back down on the scarred oak table. He glanced at his fellow archer and grinned. "What's so bad that you need to bribe me with whiskey?"

"We're hoping you can tell us what's going on. It appears as if the city is about to explode."

"Funny you should use that expression, friend. It might just be more accurate than you realize. I mean besides the usual mages hate templars who hate mages. It's Anders."

Nathaniel felt a tingle of raised hair on the back of his neck. The noise in the Hanged Man receded into the background and his ears rang from the sudden cessation of noise as his blood thrummed, pounding painfully. He leaned forward, his eyes searching Varric's expression for any indication he was teasing, but the dwarf's eyes held a grim light.

His tone was gruff and raspy as fear spiked in his blood. "What's he done?"

"It's not what he's done but what he's doing."

Nathaniel's heart kicked his ribs as memories of Anders discussing bomb-making with Dworkin Glavonak clamored for attention. Anders had professed a fascination with the mad dwarf who'd created explosives not dissimilar to those reputed to belong to the Qunari. He put that picture together with Varric's comments and the room darkened and pitched as his fear turned to horror.

"Are you saying he's building bombs?"

"Well, not yet, but he's gathering the materials for at least one, if my sources are correct."

"And they wouldn't be your sources if they weren't correct. Maker," Nathaniel breathed, pushing back from the table. His glass overturned and the spreading whiskey was a dark gold against the wood.

"Where are you going?" Varric asked and cast a longing look at the shot of whiskey in his glass.

"To find Anya, then Anders. It's time he paid for his crimes," Nathaniel answered coldly. "Maker, I hope it isn't too late," he added.

"Well, there's no rush. Anders is gone."

"Maker's Ass! You might have told me sooner," Nathaniel all but growled. "Where is he?"

"Now that's the odd thing. He went into the tunnels under Darktown and disappeared."

"Disappeared how?"

"As in one minute he was there and the next he was gone. Like he walked through a wall. My guys are going over the area with a fine-toothed comb, Nate. They'll find him."

The confidence in Varric's voice did little to soothe Nathaniel's nerves. His fingers reflexively curved around his dagger. Why hadn't he just bloody well killed him when he'd had the chance? His heart skipped several beats and he was on his feet again, the urgency setting his blood on fire.

"Now what?" Varric asked, grabbing Bianca and gulping the whiskey. He shivered, glaring at Nathaniel. "And it better be important. That's a waste of good sipping whiskey."

But Nathaniel was already striding out of the tavern, his thoughts on Anya and her vulnerability. Where was Anders?

**~~~oOo~~~**

Everything about the viscount's office inspired confidence, including the viscount himself. From the neat stack of official documents on the large, mahogany desk to the neatly coifed auburn hair, everything was tidy and highly polished, exuding strength and confidence. Anya fervently hoped that the newly chosen viscount was as self-assured as he appeared in his austerely-cut dark clothes.

He greeted the group with an inclination of his head and his eyes immediately focused on Margaret.

"Lady Hawke? To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"You will not think it a pleasure, Bran. We've come to discuss the knight-commander and first enchanter."

A tic developed in the man's firm jaw and he gave an almost imperceptible sigh. "Of course you have. You heard about the last confrontation?" he asked, moving to a large round table that gleamed in the morning light streaming through the windows.

After introductions were made, Anya leaned forward, hands resting lightly on the highly polished table. "You believe there will be a mage insurrection?" she asked, unable to keep a thin note of disbelief from her voice. "They'll be massacred by the templars."

Viscount Bran's grim face was her answer. He stood and moved quietly to the window, his posture as stiff as a tightly coiled spring. "The confrontations between Meredith and Orsino are escalating and it's only luck and the grand cleric that have prevented outright murder."

"Then we can't leave this room until we have a plan in place to prevent such an occurrence," Margaret pronounced, her voice as calm as a windless day.

The viscount turned to look at Anya and she met his gaze steadily. "You've fought every imaginable type of battle, Arlessa Anya. What do _you_ suggest?"

She winced at the title and shook her head. "You find me as a simple citizen, Viscount Bran. I am neither an arlessa nor a Grey Warden commander. But I am more than willing to help. We need intelligence on them both. Varric mentioned that at least one of them was given a weapon containing red lyrium. It's possible that both were given such weapons and if that's true, the first order of business is to destroy any such weapons, or at least confiscate them."

She felt the weight of every eye focused on her at her pronouncement. Bran dropped his eyes first and Margaret's frown deepened. The only other occupant of the room stirred and his markings flared briefly.

Anya's hand tensed, her fingers gripping the small knife hidden in her pocket. Her breath eased out when Fenris's eyes widened, a thoughtful expression softening his countenance as his markings dimmed. After a moment, he nodded firmly. "She is correct. Even Danarius feared the effects of red lyrium. His former experiment went insane from it," he finished bitterly. Margaret reached out and stroked his cheek once and his harsh expression relaxed.

"Exactly," Anya agreed. "The Grey Wardens have discovered a number of areas in the Deep Roads where it can be found and they experimented with it, but it was too dangerous to use. Mage powers were intensified and even those with no magical inclinations were able to wield certain types of spells, especially kinetic spells. They discovered the hard way that prolonged exposure drives one insane. They think it has to do with the sound of it, but I don't know if that's true. I only know that if the Grey Wardens found it too dangerous to use, it shouldn't be in the hands of those two."

"Why did Sister Nightingale give them the weapons to begin with? Surely she knows how dangerous the lyrium is. What the Chantry doesn't know about lyrium hasn't been discovered." Margaret wanted to know.

Why, indeed? A reasonable question but any answer seemed less reasonable than it did paranoid. Standing, Anya frowned as she began to pace, aware of the steady tick of a clock and the slight click and pop of her gait in the silent room. She sniffed, surprised to smell brine and kelp in the viscount's office until she noted he had opened the window and was frowning down at the square below him.

"We need to find a plan, and quickly. Today is quiet but I can't guarantee tomorrow will be," he stated firmly. "It matters little what it is as long as the plan is implemented immediately."

Another silence, fraught with tension, settled on the room like an impenetrable mist. Anya stood in front of the other window, looking down at the bustle of activity. Even as they went about their business, she could see the strain the people of Kirkwall were living under in the harried glances and hollow-cheeked grimaces of those who scurried about their business with more speed than grace.

Tension held them upright and grim. Sooner or later the tension would explode and they would begin to fight each other about who was right about the treatment of the mages, until brother fought sister and people died. She had seen the same bleakness of expression in Amaranthine during her first year there, when the darkspawn and the nobles seemed determined to destroy the arling.

"What about arresting Orsino and Meredith? Using the city guard to contain any repercussions from such an action? Would Grand Cleric Elthina support us?" Margaret offered. "I know it seems an unconventional method but I can think of nothing else."

"At most that is a stopgap. What charges would we file against them?"

"Disturbing the peace? Sedition? For surely if they continue down this path Kirkwall will fall into anarchy."

The idea was not without merit but Anya agreed with the viscount. Such an action would only be temporary at best. She hesitated as an idea began to form and she paused to mull it over carefully. A thrill of excitement scooted pleasantly in her blood. Yes, it might very well be the answer.

"I think – I think I have a solution. Or at least a partial solution," she began, a smile forming without restraint on her lips as a weight shifted and then departed. "It's two-fold and will require a bit of planning."

The viscount returned to his seat and eyed her with wary hope. "Continue, Lady Anya."

"The most important thing is to destroy the red lyrium. That means finding and removing whatever 'gift' Leliana gave to Orsino. Nathaniel will be perfect for that job. He'll also need to confiscate Meredith's great sword. Without the red lyrium they will be easier to manage.

"Next, we will need to determine which of them will be a better Grey Warden. For that I'll need to speak with Warden Commander Stroud. He can use the Right of Conscription on either one of them and that will alleviate the largest probl -"

"Will it?" Fenris interrupted, his voice quiet and hard. "Anders poses as large a threat, or perhaps more so. His sickness cannot be attributed to red lyrium. He must be eliminated as well."

An involuntary shudder shook Anya and she gritted her teeth to stop another from following in its wake. "I know. He will be dealt with as he should have been years ago. Trust me, Fenris, I will not leave Kirkwall until he is no longer a threat."

A sigh from Margaret echoed Anya's as she continued to discuss the plan. After nearly a quarter of an hour, she concluded, "I suggest the city guard go on standby as I'm sure the templars under Meredith's command will not take kindly to a conscription of either the knight-commander or the first enchanter."

"Excellent suggestion, I'll see to it immediately. It's more than time for them to regain their authority over the affairs of this city," Viscount Bran agreed and stood. "Let us know when you have spoken to Warden Commander Stroud and have everything in place."

"I'll see to it immediately," Anya promised as she left the office and made her way stiffly down the stairs and out of the keep.

Without a word, the trio made their way back to the Amell estate where the others waited. She immediately dispatched Flynne and Carver in search of Stroud's whereabouts and then sank into a deep, overstuffed chair. Massaging her eyelids, where a headache lurked and threatened to intensify, she listened with growing alarm as Nathaniel and Varric explained about Anders, his disappearance and the probability that he was building a bomb.

As they discussed the plan to neutralize Orsino and Meredith, two of Varric's scouts arrived at the mansion. Both of the boys were reed thin and dressed in tattered linen and homespun, their faces sporting a great deal of grim and matching grins.

"Oy! We found where the blighter went!" one of the urchins proudly proclaimed. "Dillon and me trailed 'im out to Settler's Folly not more'n an hour ago, eh?"

"Aye, an hour, I reckon," the other agreed, holding out a grubby palm. Varric flipped a coin at first one boy and then the other. "Did you leave the others to keep an eye on him?"

Another nod, a doff of scruffy old leather caps and the boys were gone. Before more could be said, Carver and Flynne arrived back at the estate with news that Stroud and two of his Wardens had gone to Striker's Bay to check on a sighting of darkspawn.

"Naturally they are in opposite directions," Anya sighed, tapping the table impatiently.

"I'll go and bring Anders back," Nathaniel said, his voice as cold and dark as a winter's night.

"So he can kill you without a second's hesitation?" she asked, shaking her head. "I want you here preparing for tonight. Breaking in to both wings of the Gallows won't be easy. You'll need to know the layout and the guard schedules."

Margaret interrupted with a faint smile. "At last! Something I can help with. I'll ask Cullen to stop by. He'll need to know what's going on, at least in part."

"Tell him only about the effects of the red lyrium and that we are confiscating the weapons to destroy them before any permanent harm is done. Don't mention the conscription," Anya warned.

"No, I won't. Cullen is a loyal man no matter how conflicted he might feel."

Nathaniel knelt in front of Anya's chair, his face grim but his grey eyes full of understanding and concern. She felt a pull, an ache in her chest at the love she experienced in that moment. He took her hands in his and held them to his chest.

"Anya, I know you think you need to be the one who goes after Anders but he'll sense you – and any other Warden we send – before you get within fighting range. You'll have to kill him without ever being able to question him about the bomb. You can't be the one to go. You know that, right?"

She did know it and in knowing it felt a well of bitterness, the guilt dark and painful in her soul. "Then who? You want me to risk someone else's life and I can't do that," she whispered, anguished at the thought.

"Ah, shit, I'll go. Bianca and I will be able to handle it and he still trusts me. Mostly."

"You will not go alone, my friend. You will have my sword," Fenris offered quietly.

Margaret paled and opened her mouth to protest or to volunteer, Anya wasn't sure, but Fenris shook his head, his markings flaring briefly. "You know you cannot go, Margaret. He will tap into your magic, if he can, like he has tried to do before, or into your kind heart."

"But I should send you?" she asked, mirroring Anya's own anguish.

"We shall bring Sebastian along as well. You should stay here to facilitate the meeting between Cullen and Nathaniel."

"I'll take Carver and Flynne and ride out to Striker's Bay. Isn't that the area he was in the last time I went out to the Wounded Coast for him?" Anya intervened, tacitly approving Fenris's sensible plan.

"Anya," Nathaniel began to argue but she wriggled her hands free and placed her fingers over his lips, gently but firmly.

"Striker's Bay should be more than safe and I'll have Stroud and his men in addition to Carver and Flynne should anything happen. We don't have time to do it any other way, Nathaniel. You can see how volatile the situation is here. Anders must be stopped but so too must Meredith and Orsino. If you have a better strategy, now is the time to share it."

Uneasy silence fell and Nathaniel nodded once, rising and bringing her to her feet as well. "All right, I see the sense of the plan. I'll make a sedative poison. Varric can coat one of his bolts with it. Provided," he continued with a grim smile in Varric's direction, "you think you can hit him?"

"My friend, Bianca is insulted that you would doubt her. And that, Naughty Nate, is going to cost you a bottle of the expensive stuff."

"At least tell me I have time to eat before we go," Carver interjected, rubbing his stomach.

"I'm afraid not, but there's probably some jerky and hardtack in my pack," Flynne teased.

Even Anya grinned and the mood in the room lightened as they finished making their plans.

"We should be back in plenty of time for your visit to the Gallows, Nathaniel. But if not, be careful."

"Hopefully we will be back by then as well. Margaret, have Bodahn prepare that old wine cellar for Anders. He will not stay in the main part of the house, sedated or not."

And with that final warning they went off to their tasks, Anya's heart heavy with guilt and worry.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Oy! The blighter's leaving! Jiggers, Dep, you two follow 'im. I'll go tell the gov'nor!" a thin, dark young boy ordered, slamming his cap on his head and glaring at the two older boys from beneath thick dark brows.

"Well, ya gotta tell him sumfin, dontchya, Smiffy? Like where's he bleedin off to, eh?" the thickset boy with the smattering of freckles replied with a roll of bright blue eyes at such idiocy.

"Looks like he's headed back into the tunnels."

"Bloody oath, where's that bleedin' tunnel go?"

The tall, skinny red-head, known as Jiggers, flashed a wide gap-toothed grin. "Out to the Wounded Coast. Comes out near Striker's Bay. Any baboon knows that."

"Well I ain't no baboon, ya flippin' arse. I'll go tell the gov'nor, you two don't lose him and iff'n he changes direction, leave a signal, aye?"

With that, Smiffy Bledsoe went bounding off in the direction of Kirkwall.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"This is as far as we can take the horses. The sand and rocks make it too dangerous to ride any closer to the cliffs."

As they dismounted the air stirred and strengthened, sweeping in from the southeast, sweet with rain. Anya adjusted her quiver and grabbed up her bow, glancing at the two men beside her. "I believe we're in for a storm," she remarked and Carver grinned boyishly.

"A big one, I'd say," he replied and elbowed Flynne, his grin broader. "Best bring your cloak, oh you of the delicate constitution," he teased before turning to tie the horses.

As quickly as the humor came, it evaporated. An uneasy silence fell as they started off, the wind lulling in agreement. A shiver traced along her spine like fingers running across her flesh. Too quiet. She tightened her grip on her bow and fought the urge to turn around and ride back to town. And for some reason she could not define, she refused to call out for Stroud, unwilling to disturb the unnatural quiet, broken only by the mournful moan of the approaching storm.

They came across the smoldering body first. The years fell away as she recalled the stench of burnt flesh and the vivid blue flames dancing on dead remains. A spasm of pain jolted her leg as her memory deepened and her heart caught.

Anders! It was impossible not to recognize those blue flames. She knelt for a minute, reciting a brief prayer and then stumbled to her feet again. She knew instinctively that the remains were Stroud and that she would not find the other Wardens alive either.

Tears formed, dripping with relentless precision down her cheeks as she continued forward, urging Carver and Flynne to follow her. With a growl of anger at herself, she swiped at the tears and continued on, senses keenly attuned to any noise. She heard the soft susurration of polished steel sliding from a well oiled scabbard and knew that Carver had drawn his longsword, taking comfort in the sound.

"Anders will know we're coming. We may be able to sense him as well, but – get down!"

She threw herself on the ground as a crackling blue bolt flew overhead, crashing into a shrub behind her. The bush burst into flames that danced with a blue glow. She rolled to her left and nocked an arrow, her hands shaking. She felt the rumble of Flynne's magic as he prepared to retaliate.

"Stay back, Carver. Let us work from range first," Anya panted, struggling to her knees and aiming in the general direction the blue bolt had originated from. She could almost hear Nathaniel yelling at her not to waste her arrows.

She motioned for Carver to move towards the cover of a large boulder and watched as he crawled that way. Flynne followed, hurling a sizzling lightning bolt in the direction of a cluster of rocks and sea grass. Just as Flynne dived behind the boulder it erupted out of the ground and shattered, sending chunks of rock raining down on both Carver and Flynne.

Her cry froze in her throat, horrified by the scene. No sound came from the pile of molten rubble and she could smell the unmistakable acrid scent of scorched flesh. Straining in that direction, she listened for any sound from them and thought she heard a faint moan but with the wind rising and the storm approaching, she couldn't be sure.

"Anders! Stop! It's Anya! I'm not here for you! I'm here for Stroud!"

"Liar! I know you've come for me! Show yourself and I might let you live!"

His voice was high and thin and she knew then that whoever lived in Anders now, she wasn't talking to the man she had once known. She stumbled to her feet and began to edge forward, her hands held out palms up, the bow lying in the sand behind her.

He was standing on a promontory, his hair wild about his face, his eyes wide and dilated. Her fear nearly paralyzed her and then, remembering the burned out shell of Stroud, she straightened and continued limping toward him. He watched her silently as she approached.

Heart pounding staccato drumbeats in her chest, she stood facing Anders. The years dropped away as if they had never existed and she saw, however briefly, the handsome young mage she had first recruited. The man she had fallen in love with. She felt frozen in place, locked in the past as she stared at him, her hand unconsciously reaching out to him before falling back to her side. Her heart ached for the chasm between them and the disaster that his life had become. But beneath, like the waves crashing into the rocks below, her anger roiled and churned.

In that instant the dream of Anders disappeared to be replaced by a worn, broken man, his eyes wide with recognition and grief.

"You shouldn't be here!" he shouted above a rising wind that seemed to push at her, curling around her legs like a cat before whipping her hair into a frenzy.

She shouldn't be there, he was right about that. For a moment time seemed to stop; the wind fell away and an unearthly silence cocooned them. It was as if the world held its breath, waiting for the inevitability of this moment.

Her heart stopped, fell, righted itself and went on. "Neither should you!" she replied, her voice hoarse with anger and fear. "You should have done the honorable thing and taken your Calling early. You should have been sent into the Deep Roads with nothing but your wits and been left to die there. You murdered people whose only crime was being by your side."

Color drained from Anders's face and he shook his head vehemently, as if to deny the past. As if he could, she thought and anger began to warm her blood and unfreeze her death grip on her hilt.

"All that you've done, Anders," she continued, her voice gaining strength. "Tell me when does it stop? When you have killed every templar in Kirkwall? Or will that only feed your bloodlust? How many innocent people must suffer for your madness to be assuaged? Or can it ever be?"

"You don't understand! You can't possibly understand!" The accusation was as bitter as gall, as dark as death.

"Then help me understand, Anders! Tell me what unspeakable crime poor Oghren committed! Tell me why Velanna had to be killed!" She took a deep breath and the question that had tormented her for so long spilled from her in bitter anguish. "What did I do to deserve your wrath?"

A harsh wind, heavy with sand, scoured her skin as Anya fought against its punishing strength. The sea crashed against the rocks, relentlessly wearing them down, sending a fine spray of water high into the air and she felt the warm mist on her cheeks.

She and Nathaniel had stood very near this spot and jumped to save their lives. She had put all her trust, all her faith, in Nathaniel in those moments. A rush of remembered fear, a bright sharp stab of it, stole her breath. The adrenaline and exhilaration followed; the remembered joy of knowing she had chosen to live.

"You can't help me and you can't stop what's going to happen. What _must _happen."

"Perhaps not, but I am compelled to try."

He laughed as if highly diverted. "You think you can do anything? You were always too full of your own consequence. But let me enlighten you, Annie. Let me explain how it will be."

Pausing, he shook his head, a scornful smirk on his face. "There's a bomb, large enough and powerful enough to blow the chantry, and everything around it, into the Fade."

The note of jubilation and pride in his voice sickened Anya. The truth of his words terrified her. Her knees turned to liquid and she felt suffocated by her own heart climbing into her throat. "A bomb?" She stumbled and righted herself as she moved closer. His contemptuous gaze brought restoring anger to her. Until that moment she had hoped that they'd been wrong about the materials he'd been gathering, that there was no bomb. But the truth snaked through her, leaving her cold.

"A bomb," she repeated and took a steadying breath. "A rather cowardly and unjust way to get attention," she sneered, shocked to hear herself baiting a madman.

"And the Chantry isn't cowardly? The templars aren't? Their deaths are a necessary part of our freedom."

"The ends justify the means? That's justice? That's what the mages want? To be even more vilified? That's what will happen if the mages destroy the temples of the faithful, Anders! Surely you know that! Any insurrection will only create a greater problem for the mages. How can you not see that?"

Their gazes met and clashed. An almost physical pain momentarily robbed her of breath and thought. He appeared wild and out of control, as he had that afternoon so long ago. Held captive by the remembered attack on her, the searing pain that nearly killed her, she was unable to move. As if caught in some frozen universe, the scene replayed itself in her head and she was held in its powerful grip, dread pulsing through her and making her blood skitter through her veins.

"_Run, Anya_!"

Justice's voice, stained with dread and filtered through Anders, still reverberated with authority. It penetrated through the freezing fog and she spun on her heel, taking a lurching step away from Anders. But she had lost her ability to run; her twisted hip and leg wouldn't allow it, especially in the sand. Her heart seemed to drop and then rise to pound insistently against her chest. There was no escape for her.

Anders had made sure of that when he'd shattered her leg all those years ago.


	51. This Raging Sea

**A/N:** _I'm thrilled and thankful that so many are still reading this story and deeply appreciative of those who wrote such wonderful reviews! Thank you so very much! _

_There is only one more chapter after this, as well as a brief epilogue. Hopefully any questions will be answered by the end of the story but if you have questions and it appears I'm not going to answer them, feel free to PM me. _

_Thank you, Oleander's One, for the quick and thorough beta and for the hand-holding and bolstering. You are awesome in every way!_

**This Raging Sea **

The red-haired man stood with his back to the room, staring out through the windows, dust motes gilding his ceremonial armor. Tall and well-muscled, he presented a heroic figure as he stood there. Zevran slipped out of the shadows gazing at the man, appreciating the physicality of him and the innate beauty of the scene. Loath to disturb the picture, he nevertheless spoke.

"Your sister sends her regards."

The sword was drawn, the tip poking none too gently into Zevran's chest before he took another step. Anya had moved with the same lightning grace at one time, rumor had it. Now he realized it was more than rumor if her brother was anything to judge by.

"And you, Crow, are a dead man, though I applaud your audacity in breaking into my office."

An easy laugh escaped as Zevran playfully pushed the tip aside. "She told me, in great confidence, that you once inscribed a rose in the hilt of her practice sword, as well as one word."

Raoul Caron's face whitened and he held the sword at the ready but no longer pressed against Zevran's leather jerkin. "And what was that one word?"

"Hmmm," Zevran paused, tapping his chin. "Now what was it?" he pondered before the sword point prodded him into speaking. "Ah, right, it was _valor_, was it not?"

The sword swooshed through the air and, with a quiet snick, slid into its scabbard. The man's face relaxed, a hint of a smile resting on his lips. "Anya is well?"

"She was when I last saw her but as to now? Hmm, who can say? She's in Kirkwall, having resigned as the warden commander and the arlessa."

The head of Empress Celene's elite guard sank into his chair, his face a mask of surprise. "Why? Why would she do that?"

For answer, Zevran pointed to a small pouch attached to one of his belts, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. Anya had warned him that her brother was quick and lethal with a sword and while the Crow believed he was fast enough on his feet not to worry about it, he was not foolish. Caron had been impressively quick in drawing and attacking. And he held that ridiculously awesome title, the Grand Master of the Sword, a title which he had no doubt earned on his own merits.

"Carefully," the redhead warned, his blue eyes narrowed.

"I would not dream of being anything else, my friend."

Extracting a well-creased vellum from the pouch, he proffered it with a slow smile. "I shall just sit quietly, enjoying the play of your muscles in that beam of sun, yes?"

Shaking his head and flashing a half smile, the man unfolded the vellum and read, his eyes skimming the letter and then glancing up at Zevran, his smile faltering. "She is sure?"

"Without information to the contrary, she is sure. She recommends you send your wife and children, as well as Her Imperial Majesty, into hiding immediately. Further, she recommends that you send a decoy to Celene's summer palace while you send Celene and your family to the sec –"

"Yes, yes, I know where she means," Raoul broke in, effectively silencing Zev, who merely shrugged.

"And my parents? She doesn't say anything about them. Will they find welcome there as well?"

Zevran's smile found purchase on his lips, bright as summer sun. "Only if they are bound and wear blindfolds. She does not entirely trust them, it would seem. Something about the Brotherhood of the Wolf, I believe?"

"My father does not serve Celene. He serves the entire nation of Orlais. It is his job to protect the country and he uses every available resource, including the Brotherhood of the Wolf. Surely she, as a Grey Warden, understands the need to do whatever is necessary, no matter how distasteful, to protect against an enemy?"

Zevran's smile darkened and he was lost in a sudden image of Aedan's mutilated body atop Ft. Drakon. Sorrow and anger washed through him as he remembered the sacrifices so many had made in fighting the Archdemon. He thought of Anya's scars both emotional and physical. He remembered hearing Loghain's assertion that the death of one king and some Grey Wardens were worth if it protected all of Ferelden from Orlesian control. And he remembered the dungeon of Howe's Denerim estate and what had been done in the name of protecting a nation.

"I will not insult you by repeating what she thinks of that notion. I will only repeat that if they are to go into seclusion with the others, they will do so bound and blindfolded. For myself, I can appreciate such a thing. There is something wicked about leather bindings and silk blindfolds, do you not agree?"

Pushing back from his desk, the head of Celene's private security moved to the window again, his back to Zevran, his hands fisted. "The minute she leaves the palace, de Chalons will be here, moving in and setting up his puppet government."

"Will he? Word on the street is that she has the hearts and minds of the people while de Chalons has only the hearts and minds of the nobles. I know who I would put my trust in. Perhaps she will feel the same? If not, she is to be congratulated on preventing bloodshed on an epic scale, yes?"

"My father believes the time of Celene's reign is at an end. He believes a civil war is inevitable."

Again, Zevran's smile emerged. "Anya suggests rather that it will be a revolution and if your father has any hope of saving Orlais, he might consider fighting with the rebels."

"She may not be wrong. But there's another reason Celene is reluctant to leave now."

Impatience stirred slowly to life. "That is unfortunate, of course, but only a fool will remain in a burning house."

"It's not quite what you think."

"No, it never is," Zevran agreed, not hiding his disappointment or impatience now. "But I have delivered my message and if you have no messages for Anya, I will be –"

"Well, well, what have we here?"

Hairs on the back of his neck rose and sent a shudder through him as Zevran turned to face the door and the woman who stood there. "Morrigan, I might have known you would involve yourself in this."

The haughty apostate, garbed in full court dress and an impressive array of jewelry, smiled coldly. "You have no idea what has transpired here yet you would condemn me. You think Celene is foolish but I think you are beyond foolish if you do not listen to the man."

"Another Old God baby, perhaps? Or do you want to set all the dragons free?" Zevran asked, a quick, sharp laugh punctuating his words.

"So Aedan told you about my … request."

The pain of that past conversation washed over Zevran and for several moments he didn't answer - couldn't without embarrassing himself with emotion he refused to share with a stranger and a witch.

"Listen to me, Zevran, and listen closely. The threat of a Blight is insignificant when compared to the larger threat facing Thedas at the moment."

"More of your ranting about your mother?" he challenged.

"You foolish elf! Tis not Mother but the threat of the green lyrium that is the issue," Morrigan replied with haughty impatience.

Moving to a chair, Zevran sat down, unwilling to betray the fear that scurried through his blood at her words and the absolute sincerity in them, the unvarnished fear. "Tell me," he said quietly, ignoring the slight tremor in his voice and hoping the other occupants of the room would do the same.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Shit!" Varric hissed as he hurried through the dimly lit tunnel. There were times when he fervently wished for longer legs and now was one of those times. "Broody, wait up!" he called, but the elf was too far ahead of him to hear his voice. And probably wouldn't obey if he did, Varric concluded with a shake of his head. Finally, panting, he stopped and turned to his young companion.

"Smiffy, run back to the Amell estate and ask for Nathaniel Howe. Tell him what's going on and bring him back with you."

"Gor blimey! I get to meet Naughty Nate?" the youngster asked, his face lit with glee. "Yer betchya, Gov'nor!"

Shaking his head, Varric continued on, ignoring the cramps forming in his short legs. "Bianca, after this is all done, what say we retire?"

He hesitated a moment, wondering if he ought to go back with Smiffy if for no other reason than to calm Nate. When he heard that Anya and Anders were on a collision course, he'd be crazy with fear and that fear would make him reckless. He shook his head and continued on. Reckless might not be a bad thing when dealing with Anders.

Not surprised some twenty minutes later when he heard Nate's strident voice, Varric gladly stopped and leaned over, his hands on his thighs, searching for his breath. "What the hell took you so long?" he asked his fellow archer.

"Where?" was all Nathaniel asked.

Varric pointed to a tunnel winding off to the right and Nathaniel sprinted off, his voice trailing after him, "Keep up, Varric, you have the sedative!"

"Shit!" Varric hissed again as he ignored the stitch in his side and pounded after Nathaniel.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"You! What are you doing here?" Anora asked, swinging her feet off her bed and standing, heart thumping wildly.

"I am here because you are about to renege on your agreement and that has made certain people very unhappy," the redhead said, her accented voice soft and menacing as she moved inexorably towards Anora.

"I don't have a choice but rest assured I will keep my counsel."

"This is too important to Thedas to take such a chance. I am sorry, but I do not have a choice either. My masters feel it is unwise to allow such a thing. You were to be de Chalons proxy in Ferelden, but that will no longer be the case, will it?"

Anora backed away as the blood drained from her face. "Don't be silly. Surely they know I can be trusted! I can control Fergus easily enough. And you know I haven't said a word to anyone in all the time I've known about the gre …"

The assassin shook her head, placing her finger to her lips. She spoke almost playfully, sending cold dread into the pit of Anora's stomach. "Shhhh. You mustn't say another word. If we can listen, surely others can too, yes?" A brief smile flitted across the woman's face before she continued. "Your survival was contingent on certain criteria which are no longer being met."

Hopelessness overran her fear as Anora caught the wink of a well-oiled blade when it caught the light. After all the plotting and planning it came down to this one moment when there were no more deals to be made. She raised her head and stood proudly as the other woman brought the blade up in an underhand motion. She barely felt the bite of the blade in her flesh.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"There's nowhere to run to, Annie, even if you _could_ run. You and I can watch the explosion from here." His voice was soft and sweet, a caress of madness that jolted through her, traces of the old Anders's tenderness more unnerving than the wildness.

They stood on a high bluff, the sounds of the approaching storm growling as the wind increased, pushing at Anya. Her hand crept to the hilt of her largely ceremonial sword, knowing she wouldn't hesitate to use it if necessary. She prayed she would not have to. Her finesse with swords had been lost in that long ago struggle with Anders. Bitterness and fear twined together in her chest and squeezed, making it nearly impossible to breathe, to think.

Her hand slid away from the sword. It couldn't save her; it would only slow her down if it came to dodging magic. A ragged laugh tore at her throat, demanding release but she held it back, tamping her hysteria down. And even knowing she couldn't really reason with a madman, she had to at least try. A deep breath, followed by another and the laughter choking her eased.

"Why can't I help you, Anders? The other mages will listen to you, surely. All you need to do is tell them to stand down, that we are working with Meredith and Orsino to bring about a peaceful resolution." Her voice wavered, shaken by the despair she saw in his eyes as they stood on the precipice, the waves pummeling the rocks below.

He shuddered and when he spoke, his voice was no longer soft and sweet, the despair melting as quickly as a snowflake on a flame. "You know nothing! I can't stop it, Annie. I can't! It wasn't me, do you understand? It wasn't me!" he shouted against the wind, the despair back and clanging in his shrill voice.

"I – I thought you were leading the Mage Underground. Everyone thinks that. Who, if not you?" she demanded as the wind whistled and shrilled around her.

With a wild laugh that ended in a sob, Anders clutched at his head, tears shining like promises in his eyes. "A cabal. A triumvirate if you will. I was never more than their messenger."

Disbelief slammed into her, pushing the air from her lungs in a long gasp. Could she get back to Kirkwall in time to defuse the bomb and stop the slaughter? Maker, how could they not know? Her voice shook as she spoke. "So you were a decoy? Where is the bomb, Anders?"

He clutched his hair, shaking his head, his eyes wide with pain. "No! I can't tell you. They won't let me."

"They won't know, I promise."

"You _still_ don't understand. None of you understands," he said, his voice a broken whisper. Tears coated his words, and a shudder tumbled down her spine at the anguish in his voice, the helplessness … the defeat.

"I'm trying, Anders. Tell me! Help me understand. Tell me who these people are and I will ensure your safety."

He wavered, tears trickling down his cheeks unheeded. A sob broke from him, a deep sound that sailed on the edge of the wind and was lost. She felt her stomach curl and tighten as she waited, as the precious moments ticked away.

A gust of wind tugged at her braid, sending more strands of hair whipping about her face. The heart of the storm was almost upon them. She could feel the first caressing drops of rain graze her cheeks. Or were they tears at seeing how broken Anders truly was? She tried to keep her mind focused, her vision narrowed to this moment, and not let it be overwhelmed with thoughts of Flynne or Carver and whether they had survived Anders's attack, but it was difficult as the guilt edged into her brain. Nathaniel's face filtered through her tumbling thoughts and she felt a piercing pain in her chest at the notion that she may never see him again.

Desperation sharpened her voice, brought a pleading quality to it that she seemed unable to stifle. "I'll help you, Anders. I'll do whatever is necessary to help you and stop the massacre. They need never know."

"You can't possibly understand the kind of magic they wield! They are around me, in my dreams, inside my head, always whispering. Believe me, they'll know." Anders shuddered.

Rain began to fall in earnest, heavy drops pounding into the ground around them, splashing into the raging sea. "I – they get into my brain and I can't think clearly … but I fight, I do," he swore, swaying on the edge of the high cliff. Below the waves crashed as the wind hurled the sea into the rocks.

"I never meant all this to happen!" he cried, his voice shrill with pain. "Please, Annie, believe me. I never meant any of this!"

There was real grief at the core of his madness and the pain in his voice stole her breath. She forced herself to speak as calmly as she could. "I have enough help here to stop them, no matter who they are or how strong they are and we can protect you from them."

"They'll make me kill anyone who tries to stop them. I know them as well as I know myself."

Gently placing a hand on his shoulder she repressed the shudder that wanted to trace her spine. Did someone – some _thing_ - control him or was he in control? How could she tell? Would it matter? She would do whatever was necessary to prevent the massacre that had been planned, but how?

He tried to follow as Anya moved away from him, the wind pushing against them both. The ground was slick from the driving rain and she slipped, throwing her arms out for balance. Anders lurched as he reached out to steady her. For a moment they clung to each other as the storm battered them, throwing them completely off balance, and then they were plunging over the edge and hurtling down to the kelp-covered rocks and the roiling sea.

A ledge broke their fall. Anya's back slammed onto the rocky outcropping and her breath was smashed out of her in one shuddering whoosh of air. Anders landed heavily atop her and she felt a flare of panic as her breath refused to return. A sharp stabbing pain tried to snap her leg in half and she struggled to push Anders off her. Rain blinded her. Her hair had caught on a low branch of a gnarled tree clinging tenaciously to the rocks, bringing fresh pain and tears sliding in to mix with the rain.

And then she felt Anders's hands slide around her neck and his eyes were alive with malice. Blue flames leapt along his body, seeming to scorch her skin. Flailing, she attempted to bring her arms up and break his hold as the world began to recede, but his grasp tightened implacably.

She twisted blindly, using her good leg as leverage to try and unseat the madman strangling her. She bucked wildly even as she felt her strength ebbing. Her fingers scrabbled in the dirt, groping for a rock big enough to do damage but all the while her vision continued to darken as his hands tightened relentlessly around her neck.

In that split second when her thoughts began to tumble away from her into unconsciousness, she remembered the dagger she had once given Margaret ... the one Margaret had returned to her. Frantically she clawed at him with one hand and jammed her other into her pocket, her fingers closing around the hilt. Her panic rising as his hands continued to tighten, she wrenched the knife out of her pocket and tried to raise her arm but every movement was excruciatingly slow and sent fresh spasms of pain through her body. Only the need to stop the madman kept her trying.

She was surprised by the force needed to push the blade into his ribs and up into his heart. His eyes flared a brilliant blue in surprise and his hands loosened their grip. A spell surge lit up the water and sky, shimmering powerfully in the storm-darkened sky. He blinked, his eyes returning to normal and she saw, one last time, the Anders she had once loved. And then the light winked out entirely as his body went limp.

A blindingly bright white light appeared then and for a wild moment she thought it was lightning, so intense was it, but there was no heat. It seemed to rush through her and she gasped at the joy that flowed into her mind and seemed to momentarily sweep away the pain, both physical and emotional, leaving behind a sense of peace she had not felt in longer than she could remember.

"You are loved," a deep voice murmured as soft as a lover's kiss and then the white light blinked out and she was alone on the ledge, even though Anders's body was still on top of her.

Panting, but filled with purpose, she gave a tremendous shove and Anders's body slid away, falling to the rocks below. She leaned carefully over the edge and looked down as the body was caught up in the storm-driven surf and carried away, disappearing into the roiling sea.

She laid back, her breath coming in heartfelt gasps as her body readjusted to an expanding diaphragm, grateful to be able to breathe again, grateful to be alive. The rain continued to pummel her and she wondered how she was going to climb back up the cliff when she was fairly certain her leg was broken. The irony of the same leg being broken by the same person was not lost on her and someday she might even be able to joke about it, but today was not that day.

Just as her pain and panic threatened to once again seize control of her, a cool and soft swirl of magic engulfed her and she heard a familiar voice shouting above the storm. "Hang on Anya! Carver went to fetch some rope!"

She hurt everywhere, even with the cocoon of healing magic that enveloped her, despite the sense of peace she was sure had been gifted to her. Simmering beneath her aches and pains was the fear that she couldn't stop the bomb from exploding, or even evacuate the chantry before it went off. Where was it? When was it set to go off? Dread coiled in her as thick and dark as tar.

Her voice, when she tried to speak, came out as a hoarse, grating whisper. "Bomb in the chantry."

Flynne, his singed hair flying wildly in the wind, leaned so far over the edge of the cliff she feared for his life. The whole left side of his face was blistered and red, but he smiled reassuringly at her and shook his head.

"Don't try to talk yet!" he shouted and she struggled to sit up, to explain about the bomb, but another wave of healing magic swirled through her and she closed her eyes, letting her thoughts float away as her body accepted the spell. She drifted off for long moments.

Riding another wave of pain, she felt a shower of pebbles pelting her face and she brought her arms up, a recrimination on her lips.

"Anya?"

The voice was gruff and breathless and so dear to her that tears formed and began to fall before she could shape a reply.

"I'm all right, Nathaniel," she managed before the first sob shook her shoulders.

Within moments she was being held in a strong embrace as she explained about Anders, his notion that others were controlling him, and the bomb located somewhere in the chantry.

"Even his death brought no peace to Kirkwall," she ended as a fresh sob welled in her chest.

"But at least we've stopped him from doing any more damage."

But Anya knew that was only wishful thinking on their part. Something had been put into motion with so much force that it seemed impossible to stop the forward momentum of the thing.

Whoever, or whatever, was in control had not given up simply because Anders was dead.

"Come on, we need to get back," she said, pulling away from the comfort of Nathaniel's arms. She hesitated and then leaned in and kissed him, soaking up his warmth and strength.

She knew she would need it in the coming days.


	52. Hold Back the Tide Pt 1

**A/N: **_I really intended this to be the last chapter of the story but as it became longer and longer I realized it was never going to fit into one chapter without losing some of its impact so this is part one of a two part chapter. The second chapter is nearly complete and I hope to finish it have it posed within the next week. _

_As always, my thanks to Oleander's One, who is such an amazing help with the story and such an amazing writer and friend. _

**Hold Back the Tide ~~ Part One**

Anger coiled in Nathaniel's belly, low and hot and without outlet. As he knelt beside Anya, holding her shoulders down while Flynne set her leg, his blood refused to cool. "I should have been here," he growled.

He'd repeated that same phrase a dozen times but no amount of saying it changed the fact that he hadn't been. Guilt chewed hungrily at him, adding to his fury and both felt as if they had a chokehold on his lungs, squeezing the air out of them.

His mind replayed those long moments when he'd come across Stroud's body, the horror of the scene throwing him back into a time and place of similar gruesomeness. The fear that this time he would be too late to save Anya nearly paralyzed him as his memories took hold. He was plunged into the past, his sense reeling. The stench of burnt flesh and the acrid, metallic taste of blood hung thick in the air. Bodies, twisted and broken beyond repair, were scattered about like toys tossed carelessly in the dirt and his love for Anya was unspoken and unrealized.

He blinked, his lungs refusing to expand as the horror gradually faded.

"Breathe, Nathaniel," Anya advised and he glanced down into her eyes, amazed at her composure. Once the tears had abated, she appeared calm … unearthly so. She had, by her own account, struggled with a madman and fallen off the side of a cliff, her leg broken and body a series of bruises, the worst of which rose along the slender column of her neck in the shapes of a man's fingers.

They were obscene reminders of how close she had come to dying. He forced himself to uncurl his fingers from her shoulders, hoping he hadn't left her shoulders similarly marked. She offered him a loving smile before closing her eyes.

Restraining the urge to repeat himself yet again, he traced her cheek with a finger and she sighed in response to the gentle touch. "Did he give any hint where in the chantry he hid the bomb?"

The question had been asked half a dozen times by various people. The reply remained the same, but Anya answered his question with that remarkable calm that began to worry him until he realized she wasn't calm, but busy trying to puzzle something out.

When she spoke again he heard the determination and worry underlying the calm. "I hope they evacuate a large enough radius around that building. Anders made it sound as if the explosion was going to wipe out the whole of Hightown. I'm not sure that anyone should go in there and hunt for the bomb because I have no idea when it will go off."

"Anders would not have been out here on the coast if the explosion was anytime soon. That bastard would have wanted to be there to see what he'd wrought." Nathaniel didn't attempt to temper his venomous tone.

A thoughtful expression flitted across Anya's face and she pushed herself up with a little groan of pain, waving Flynne away. Nathaniel admired her determination while silently cursing her stubbornness. She needed to be still and allow Flynne's healing to continue. Instead she sat up a bit more and spoke with a quiet thoughtfulness that chilled him.

"It seems odd to try and bring about freedom for mages by blowing up the chantry. That makes martyrs of every member of the chantry and its templars. Nobody in their right mind would be sympathetic to the mages with Elthina and her contingent of clerics and templars dead by the hands of mages. People would insist that Meredith institute the Right of Annulment, not allow freedom for mages."

His thoughts tumbled as he processed her words, answers batting at the periphery like moths against a candle-lit window. Fear finally pushed aside the anger, weaving tentacles around his spine up to the base of his neck, where his hair prickled suddenly.

"You're right, it defies logic. Unless …" he trailed off as he brain went through the events. His breath hissed out. "… It's a diversion or the first step in a much larger campaign."

An uneasy silence fell before Anya finally spoke, her voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. "Why? Is it mage freedom that is being fought for or is it the hope of spreading anarchy across Thedas?"

The only answer was the low moan of wind as it pressed against the sea grass.

**~~~oOo~~~**

The silence in the room was stiff and uncomfortable, fraught with the distrust and disdain of adversaries. The undercurrent of fear in Morrigan's voice had sent fissures into an already rocky relationship and Zevran sought to ease the tension, deliberately coating his words with humor.

"I see you have found a new seamstress, my dear Morrigan. The silk is much more to my liking than the fringed leather."

Morrigan's eyes glittered like newly minted gold as she glared at him. "'Twould seem that you are as irreverent and frivolous as ever," she replied coolly.

Zevran's smile grew more teasing. "Ah, to change such a winning personality is a waste of time and energy that is better spent in more pleasurable pursuits."

Her lip curled in distaste. "I assure you that what you deem pleasurable I deem irresponsible."

"Enough! Morrigan, sit and explain the nature of the situation," Raoul ordered, his voiced clipped. "There isn't time for you two to bait each other or rip open old wounds."

"Yes, Morrigan, explain what this green lyrium is that seems to unnerve you," Zevran agreed, the marked cordiality in his voice patently false.

"I see you still blame me for Aedan's death, no matter how foolish the notion. I offered him a way out and he chose death. That seems less a reflection on me and more …"

"Enough, I said! Sit, Morrigan, and both of you save the animosity for a later date. _If _there is a later date to be had."

Arching a brow, Zevran turned to study Raoul and the fear he'd felt earlier returned tenfold. "You have my undivided attention," he replied and any trace of humor was gone, wiped away by the depth of Raoul's obvious alarm.

Morrigan opened her mouth and then closed it before sitting. Her regal bearing illustrated how far she had come from her origins as a swamp witch and he eyed a much more confident woman. Fine lines were now there, brought on by stresses he could only guess at, but they somehow touched him and he found his old anger drifting away.

"You are aware of blue lyrium, I assume? Used by mages and templars alike to help fuel their spells? A highly addictive substance that the chantry uses to control its agents," she began coolly, as if instructing a less than bright student.

"Yes, and I am familiar with red lyrium. It is extremely rare and much stronger than blue lyrium. The Crows have used it on occasion when assassination is less desirable than other outcomes."

"By other outcomes I assume you mean madness?" Morrigan interjected, shaking her head. "'Tis hardly a surprise to find the Crows manipulating such events, as I have witnessed the Brotherhood of the Wolf doing the same. Still, it is a concern to see such irresponsibility in either of you."

"Ah, so you are a member of my competition?" Zev responded with a raised brow.

A provocative smile graced Morrigan's lips, a brief creature that flitted and was gone. When she spoke, she ignored his jibe and continued in her cool tones. "There is an even more powerful form of lyrium. I discovered its existence when I was studying an elven artifact."

"And by artifact you mean an Eluvian?" Zevran asked, a brief flick of enjoyment winging through him at her look of surprise, covered quickly by her curtain of aloofness.

"My, my, you are well informed."

At this, Raoul spoke, his voice implacable and hard. "During the course of her study, she discovered that there was a network of Eluvians throughout Thedas. They were, apparently, used for transport and communication with other clans. Naturally such devices required an enormous amount of power."

"I assume that power was produced through this green lyrium?" Zevran asked, striving for a casual note he did not at all feel.

"Clever, clever man," Morrigan said but the taunt was less provoking now that he understood her fear. It had become his own.

"And where might one find this green lyrium? Perhaps in the Blasted Hills? The contested area around Perendale?"

"The green lyrium is more than just a power source for the Eluvians," Raoul continued, ignoring Zevran's remark. "Five years ago we mounted an expedition into certain elven sites throughout Orlais. Ancient texts discovered in Halamshiral suggest that another elven city, one to rival Arlathan in importance if not size, was hidden in the caverns between Andoral's Reach and Perendale."

Morrigan glanced once at Raoul and then her gaze fell on Zevran as she spoke. "The elves believe that the other realms, especially the Fade, are composed of green lyrium. They believe the Creators used the raw green lyrium to shape our world. They believe it was used in the creation of the elves and all living creatures. They call it the Song of Life."

Before Zevran could comment, or even form a rational thought, Raoul once again took up the narrative. "They discovered several large veins of it and the elven city we mentioned was built at the site of the discovery. It was guarded by a number of traps and illusions to prevent it ever being found by others. With the fall of Arlathan, the knowledge fell into the Void."

"Until recently," Morrigan interrupted and Zevran was surprised by the excitement he saw in her normally disdainful expression. "I found reference to it in a number of elven tablets. Apparently Mother discovered its existence, as well. Or perhaps she already knew of it. We have not spoken for some time."

"No, I imagine not since we killed her," Zevran agreed, his voice far steadier than his nerves.

"I did warn you that Mother never actually dies."

"So you did. Such a very useful trait to have, no? So she is harvesting the green lyrium?"

Both Raoul and Morrigan shook their heads, a frown drawing Morrigan's finely arched brows together. "'Tis the oddest thing, but Mother seems to be intent on other 'projects' at the moment, though what Kirkwall has to do with any of this I've no idea."

The room was bright and warm as the sunlight streamed through the window but Zevran was cold, chilled from within by the words that confirmed Anya's suspicions. Why Kirkwall? Why choose Kirkwall as a diversion? More importantly, what was that diversion?

No matter how implausible the news was, Zevran saw that both Raoul and Morrigan truly believed everything they said. He also knew full well just how devious and dangerous Flemeth was. "When have we ever actually beaten your mother at one of her schemes?" he asked into the silence that her last remark had created.

"'Tis time to do so. I recommend we assemble a team as formidable as our previous group. Let us waste no time in Mother's schemes. Let us find the green lyrium."

"And what is in it for you, Morrigan? Certainly not benevolence; you do nothing unless it profits you."

"Escape from Mother," she replied with that old, familiar condescension that so clearly stated only an idiot would ask such a foolish question.

"Why the need to escape? If this green lyrium is so powerful surely you can use it to destroy Flemeth."

A scoff was his only answer but Raoul spoke with the same quiet authority that Anya used to such effect. "We need to find that lyrium before Nevarra does. You've been around enough to know that Nevarra hopes to conquer and acquire all of Orlais, the Free Marches and beyond. The only reason that they have not set their sights on the Anderfels is because the Wardens have thrown their lot in with us. They recognize the danger. Why do you think Anya, or any commander of the Ferelden Wardens, is given an arling? Weisshaupt has infiltrated a number of governments to that end."

Like motes floating in a dark room, Zevran's thoughts drifted, nebulous and just beyond his sight. So many things began to slip into place and yet he had too many questions still unanswered. He swung his gaze between the two, wishing for the briefest moment that he had stayed in Ferelden. But there was no reason for that either; the days of quiet contentment in Fergus's household were gone. A single fact crystallized, a mote caught in a sunbeam, and he spoke without his usual warm humor.

"Yet you did not feel it important enough to inform your sister," he accused coldly.

Shame flared in eyes the same color as Anya's and then a curtain came down, hiding any emotion. Zevran clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Was Ferelden not to be told of this momentous discovery?"

Morrigan's eyes narrowed and she folded her arms across her chest, her chin high. "I never thought you a fool until now. Of course Alistair was told. We wanted his assistance with an expedition but he refused to believe any of this. He is not rational. But then he never was," she ended, shaking her head contemptuously.

He attempted a smile but it flickered and was gone. She was absolutely right in that Alistair wasn't rational. It was possible his taint was progressing more quickly than was normal. Or his bitterness had overcome his good sense. Not that it would matter. Within the next few weeks he would be deposed as ruler.

"Then I suggest you present the case to Fergus, who will shortly become King Fergus of Ferelden."

"Yes, of course … if there is time. But Flemeth is in company with one she calls her sister. We know her as the Divine, Justinia V."

Zevran felt as if his blood had been plunged into ice water.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Woozy from another healing spell that Flynne had insisted on casting, Anya leaned against the pillows, eyes closed and mind churning. She felt as if she had missed a vital clue of some kind, that she should have some idea of what was going on, but she was at a complete loss. The group had found the bomb and defused it, but it would hardly have caused the type of explosion Anders had boasted of. Was the bomb they'd found a decoy?

She pushed Flynne's hands away, watching the green wisps of healing dissipate. "Hand me the iron crucible," she commanded and ignored Flynne's frowning countenance. "Carver, I'll need my cane as well."

"Stubborn woman," Nathaniel growled at her even as he bent to help fasten the leg brace into place. She let her fingers stroke his dark hair for a moment, drawing comfort from the silky texture.

The trip back from the coast had been arduous and painful and depressingly long, giving them time to try and sort through the confusing details. They still had no answers and no clear plan. Even Margaret, the Champion of Kirkwall, seemed stymied.

"How long can we keep the chantry closed?" she asked, ignoring the tick in his jaw as he straightened up and moved to help her off the bed.

"Less than a day if Elthina has anything to say about it."

"Then we'd better see if we can't change her mind. I want teams to go in and search every nook, cranny, crevice and closet. There must be more to this than that paltry little bomb we found. We were meant to find it, I suspect, as a way to lull us into a false sense of security."

They left the house, a band of friends and comrades drawn together by shared experiences and a single desire to prevent what they all felt was coming. Anya was not looking forward to confronting Meredith and Orsino, but she wanted to get their reactions when she discussed the bomb that had found in the chantry and what it meant.

The storm, having blown itself out, had left brightly washed blue skies in its wake. Anya felt the sultry wind caress her face as she limped along the sun-dappled streets, her cane tapping rhythmically on the stones as she walked.

It appalled her that the day was blazingly beautiful when her heart felt shredded and dark. She mourned not only for Anders but also for all those he'd harmed because she hadn't been strong enough years ago. Her steps faltered and she felt an immense swell of grief.

Before her tears blinded her, Nathaniel's hand slid from her elbow down to clasp her fingers with life-affirming warmth. He squeezed her fingers gently but refrained from saying anything and she was immeasurably thankful. She squeezed back and her feet found the cobblestones again as she moved forward.

Margaret and Fenris hurried ahead to discuss the matter with the viscount and arrange for a meeting of all those involved, her beautiful blonde hair fluttering in the breeze, his arm protective as he guided her through the busy marketplace.

Circling Varric like bumblebees around honeysuckle was the dwarf's network of young spymasters. Anya suspected that for all his grumblings about them he enjoyed their bright, blithe spirits; that he paid them well for even the smallest scrap of information was a given.

Earnest and blinding in his polished white armor, the Prince of Starkhaven walked a few steps behind Varric, his lips moving silently in prayer. Would he be able to talk Grand Cleric Elthina into keeping the chantry closed until further notice? If she asked the captain of the city guard and her husband to go with him to ensure Elthina did so - at least until after the meeting - would he be more persuasive?

Turning her gaze to the tall, ginger-haired guard captain with her uniformed armor neat and her sword gleaming coldly, Anya felt the woman's strength and determination. She was a clever tactician, even if she was a bit overbearing.

Loose-limbed and confident, her husband's uniform was just a bit unkempt and his sideburns a trifle long, as if he had more important things to think about, but there was a steeliness in his eyes and a determination every bit as strong as his wife's.

Behind her, she heard Carver's low rumble of laughter at something the Dalish mage had said. While others tended to shun her for the use of blood magic, Anya was far more pragmatic about it. The woman was intelligent behind the façade of nervous prattling. And completely unafraid from what Margaret said, although Anya wasn't sure that was a boon.

As they neared Viscount's Keep, Anya called a halt to the procession and spoke softly to Sebastian. "I need you to convince Grand Cleric Elthina that the chantry must remain closed until we are convinced there is no danger. She must not let the brothers and sisters return, nor the templars."

"Aye, Mistress Anya, I'll do it and have a look around while I'm there. I've no real belief in Anders or his wee bomb being the only one there. I will be happier if I can assure myself with another search," he replied in his soft lilting burr.

"And just in case it's necessary, will you accompany him, Donnic? I want her to understand the gravity of the situation."

"Yes, she needs a bit of bullying now and then. You can have a look around too," Aveline added, glancing at her husband. "But, Maker, if you find something don't try to disarm it."

"My assistants will be more than happy to help," Varric offered and the young boys eagerly agreed, nodding and jostling each other to gain Varric's attention.

"Actually, I would like them to keep an eye on the plaza outside of Viscount's Keep and let us know the minute there appears to be any problem."

"Aw, me mum's bum! I kin find a boomer fast enough, Varric, see if I don't!" a gangly, grimy young boy exclaimed, slapping his disreputable cap on his curly blond hair. "Me an' Gilly'll have the place combed afore ye can dance a jig!"

Anya judged him no more than nine or ten years old and the young boy he'd indicated as Gilly seemed younger still, with his dusty brown hair standing up in an impressive cowlick in the back and his fat brown freckles scrambling across his nose.

"First of all, I don't dance," Varric began, grinning. "Second of all, when the boss lady talks, you obey," he added, offering a surprisingly polished salute to Anya. She smiled and shook her head.

"There's extra coin for you if you stand guard in the plaza. Maybe even some of Bodahn's tea cakes," she added as incentive, hoping that Margaret's servant actually baked such things.

A cheer arose from the motley assortment of boys and they ran off, the older ones taking charge of the younger ones.

The Dalish mage spoke for the first time. "I'd like to go. That is if you don't need me and really why would you need me there anyway? I think I'd be of more help there than here. What do you think, Carver?"

Carver glanced at Anya, offering a sheepish shrug while Flynne flashed a teasing smile. "Yes, Carver, what _do _you think?"

"I think I need a bloody drink, that's what," Carver grumbled but he added in more serious tones, "And I think Merrill should go with Sebastian and Donnic. She's got good instincts and she's able to find and neutralize any glyphs Anders might have used to protect a bomb."

Anya nodded and the trio left, Donnic in the lead, his wide shoulders confidently pushing through the midday crowds.

"Stay safe," Aveline murmured and a shiver went through Anya.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"What are they playing at?" Zevran asked, pacing the confines of the room with lithe grace. "What is happening in Kirkwall? What are your mother and the Divine up to? That is a city on the verge of exploding, if Anya's sources are right."

"'Tis of little importance. The real issue is Mother and preventing her from obtaining that lyrium."

"I disagree, Morrigan. Somehow Kirkwall is important, but how? Zevran, you spoke of a letter from the Champion to Anya. Did she mention Flemeth or the Divine?"

"She did say an emissary of the Divine had been sent - a Sister Nightingale - who seemed to be testing their resolve and bestowing gifts on the knight-commander there. A bird bearing gifts is never a good thing. Wouldn't you agree, my lovely witch?" Zevran replied. His steps faltered imperceptibly before he resumed his pacing, wishing for a larger room.

"Sister Nightingale? Another old friend of yours, Zevran. And the Divine's favorite."

"Ah, I did wonder what became of our dangerously naïve and devout Andrastian. I had hoped she had taken her vows and was cloistered. It would seem Leliana is not content to watch events. She learned nothing from Aedan. Nor, it would seem, from Marjolaine's treachery."

He resumed his pacing, resisting the urge to give in to the panic that seemed to hinder his thoughts. "So, we have the unrest between mages and templars in Kirkwall, a city noted for the high number of Tranquils as well as the home of the Mage Underground, led by an unstable former Warden." He paused for a moment and stared at Raoul, his anger growing at how ill-prepared Fergus was to deal with events unfolding across Thedas.

"Let us continue. A gift was given to the knight-commander from the emissary of the Divine that may or may not have contained red lyrium. There is a growing swell of unrest among the citizenry, the war of words between the templars and mages becomes more and more vitriolic, the citizens more and more afraid of both templars and mages. A highly charged atmosphere with the littlest spark able to ignite into a … "

"Holy war against mages! A diversion? Or part of a plan that will force the mages to fight, using every means available?" Raoul broke in, a wild undercurrent of fear in his voice.

Morrigan's usual poise slipped and her face paled. "'Twould be insane to ignite such a war! Such power could unleash demons and with enough demon-fueled power the Veil would be torn apart. 'Tis no diversion Mother plans, but freedom for the mages and the sundering of the Veil. But why? Mother is hardly altruistic."

"Because an army of mages led by her would be a formidable force. None would be able to stop her from finding and using the green lyrium. But why involve Justinia? The templars are sworn to protect against the use of forbidden magic," Raoul interjected, running shaky fingers through his hair.

"Alistair explained that their underlying oath is to protect mages from themselves and from others. They may fight against the mages in the beginning, but they will eventually side with the mages. Or so I surmise," Zevran finished.

Light and shadows played across Raoul's face and his expression was impossible to read but now that they had the answers they had sought, a host of other questions surfaced.

"I need to leave immediately for Kirkwall. Anya needs to be warned, and then on to Ferelden to inform Fergus."

"If Leliana has returned, 'tis too late, Zevran. Whatever the plan is has been set in motion. Our only hope now is to ensure stability here, to bring the Brotherhood of the Wolf and the chevaliers into our circle and prepare for a war unlike any we have ever seen. And, above all, we need to get to those caverns first. 'Tis our only hope of stopping Mother."

"I refuse to believe it's too late!" Raoul broke in, defiance in his eyes. "We need to warn other nations. We need to find your mother and kill her again and again and again. We need to arrest Justinia and Leliana, and we need to stop the mages from rebelling in Kirkwall."

Raoul's words were more wishful thinking than reality, Zevran suspected. He turned to Morrigan, who spoke with a hint of pity. "We all know I am right. Mother's been planning this for years, I suspect. I have wondered before if she was somehow guiding my steps, leading me to the discovery of the Eluvians, the lyrium, just another one of her games. Yet, I cannot understand why. What am I to her?"

Cold dread crawled along Zevran's spine and his voice was rough with it when he spoke. "Ah, my lovely witch, you are her most formidable adversary and her most powerful ally. The only thing she can't predict is which one you are at any given time. But she controls you because you have a strength that she fears."

"Mother fears me?" Morrigan scoffed, shaking her head in denial, but Zev watched her eyes as the truth snuck in and slowly replaced denial.

"Why would she want the Veil torn? What would that even mean?" Raoul asked.

Dread had invaded the room, holding sway on them all. Zevran's stomach crawled with it as he waited for Morrigan's answer.

"A breach in the Veil would mean demons spilling into our world, armies of undead and the risen dead causing havoc. Intelligent beings more powerful than you can imagine would be able to enter our world and go unnoticed by any without magic. If you believe in the lore of the chantry or the pantheon of the elves, then the Old Gods would be among those beings, as they would be released from their prisons."

"What? Wait! I thought that at the end of each Blight an Old God was killed. That's not true?"

"'Tis a myth, a fairytale to calm the frightened, nothing more. The Warden's body is merely a conduit of escape for the Old God, a newly purified sou. 'Tis that soul of the Old God who seeks a new host, which is always a dragon. A human cannot withstand such a transfer. The process is more complicated than that but 'tis of little importance to our discussion." She paused here as her words penetrated Zevran's thoughts.

When she continued, her voice was without her usual scorn. " But dead? If one cannot kill Flemeth, how can one kill a god?"

"With green lyrium, I suspect," Zevran concluded grimly, unable to maintain his façade of humor. He turned to Morrigan with a raised brow. "I don't suppose _you_ can transform into a dragon?"

"I cannot, for I have never studied one."

Zevran fought through a fog of mind-numbing panic, a state he had not been in for more years than he wanted to count.

"Perhaps 'twould be possible to get you there another way," the witch said, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

Zevran was not at all sure he was willing to hear what she had in mind, but he found himself asking her anyway.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Trying to stop this upcoming war is like trying to hold back the tide with your hands," Nathaniel muttered to Anya.

Meredith pounded the table again and Anya winced as the heavy gauntlet gouged the polished oak. "You cannot have it both ways, Orsino!"

The elven face distorted as he stood up. "You're impossible to deal with! So bigoted and twisted by your past that you can't grasp the future!"

The only reaction to the news about the bomb was a ratcheting up of the rhetoric between the two combatants. She drummed her fingers on the table and then looked at them more closely.

Leaning closer to Nathaniel, she whispered, "Did you notice that Meredith is unarmed? At least no greatsword. And how odd that Orsino is not carrying a staff. What do you suppose that can mean?"

"That it's safe to search their rooms for those items. I'd warn you to keep them talking but that doesn't seem to be an issue."

"Take Varric. And for Maker's sake be careful. Getting caught in Meredith's room would be like setting a match to tinder."

She watched the two men leave and then forced her attention back to the group around the table. A dull headache formed behind her eyes and she wanted to stab both Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino with a very dull and rusty blade until they both fell silent.

Warm and stuffy, the room only added to the overall mood. Margaret glanced at her from slightly raised brows and then spoke with a quiet dignity when Anya nodded. "I suggest we take a short break until tempers are cooled. Perhaps if we share a glass of wine and a small repast we will be able to conduct this meeting in a more civilized manner."

"An excellent idea," Bran agreed heartily and motioned to his seneschal. "I think the blue salon would serve well."

"I haven't the time to waste on repasts and teas or whatever other delaying tactic you can come up with, Champion. While we sit here the Mage Underground continues to plot. No doubt with Orsino's assistance," she added with a menacing scowl.

"Paranoid delusions! I have _never_ worked with the Mage Underground!"

Anya's headache blossomed and spread. Her leg and hip joined in and she finally stood, her voice cool and commanding. "You are both being foolish and short-sighted. You bicker and squabble like spoiled children while around you the house burns to the ground. Now, I recommend we adjourn for refreshments and a cooling down period."

Meredith's blue eyes narrowed and she shot a venomous look at Anya but she stood, her posture rigid. With a final glare, she followed Margaret out of the room. Orsino rolled his eyes and departed as well.

An elegant room with silk-clad walls and comfortable blue upholstered chairs and settees, the tension eased considerably. Anya stood near one of the high, multi-paned windows overlooking the marketplace and beyond that rose a graceful spire. Where, she wondered yet again, was Grand Cleric Elthina?

"Want me to go prod them along? I'm not doing much good here," Aveline commented dryly, coming to join her.

Anya shook her head. "If anything, I would appreciate if you would put your guards on their highest alert and then go and drag Elthina to this meeting. How can she not understand the gravity of the situation?"

"Sebastian has often said she is much more intelligent than she appears. She likes to play at being a soft old woman but she's tough as nails, according to him. Maybe she isn't here because she knows it won't do any good."

Margaret, who had moved to join them, nodded, her green eyes dark with worry. "She is crafty, I'll give her that. She's a great one for leading you exactly where she wants you to go without your suspecting a thing."

"What are you all whispering about? It doesn't look too good for you all to be huddled about buzzing like bees," Carver uttered, glancing back at the knight-commander and first enchanter who were glowering at each other over cups of tea.

Correct as he was, Anya was reluctant to rejoin the group. "Please, Aveline, do what you can to hurry the grand cleric along."

Using her guardsmen as an excuse, Aveline left the room and Anya unenthusiastically moved to take a seat beside Bran. Fenris was leaning against a bookcase, book in hand, but she saw that he was alertly watching the adversaries.

Carver and Flynne moved towards Fenris and Margaret carefully set her teacup on a small polished rosewood table. A brief moment of silence graced the room and Anya allowed her shoulders to relax as she eased into her chair. She opened her mouth to direct an inane comment at Bran but before she could form a word, a surprisingly loud rumble of what seemed to be thunder permeated the walls of the keep.

Seconds later the window's glass shattered as a shock wave from a large blast hit the building.


	53. Hold Back the Tide Pt 2

**Hold Back the Tide ~~ Part Two**

"You want me to be a test subject? You have no idea where I'll end up!" Zevran protested. "I am no coward but neither am I a fool!"

"That is debatable."

At Morrigan's caustic remark, Zevran raised a brow but remained silent as he studied the elven artifact that looked like nothing more than a mirror in an ornately carved frame. If he wasn't desperate to relay his news, he would laugh at the notion of the mirror, but he had seen enough mysterious things in his travels not to dismiss the idea out of hand.

Finally, she spoke again. "Wait for a ship then. 'Twill take no more than three days."

Zevran eyed the murky surface of the mirror suspiciously. "Have you traveled anywhere using this Eluvian? Have you communicated with anyone using it? I believe you require green lyrium for its use, no?"

"My, my, such a brave assassin you are. All those questions. Shall I assume you wish to travel by ship, then?"

"I wish to travel by dragon but since you are not able to accommodate me, I will use this Eluvian and hope that you know what you're doing."

All hauteur fell away and Zevran once again saw the younger, more vulnerable Morrigan emerge. "'Tis safe, Zevran. You have my word on it."

"Keep Anora here until I return for her and don't let her speak to anyone."

"I shall see it done."

With a nod, he forced himself to step up to the Eluvian, aware now of a low humming sound. He looked more deeply into the gray mist and thought he saw a dimly lit room. With a sigh, he stepped into the mirror.

Falling through a swirling darkness, he bit his cheek to keep from crying out. The sensation of being utterly alone in the dark was suffocating, even as the whirling mass threatened to crush his chest. He struggled to remember how to breathe, arms and legs flailing helplessly.

He continued to fall, reaching out for some kind of handhold to slow his descent but there was nothing except the dark fog. A high, thin wail permeated the darkness, the rushing of wind through and around him as he seemed to hurtle down the long, dark shaft.

Until he landed with a bone-jarring thud on a dusty wooden floor.

His head snapped back and he tasted blood where his teeth had clamped down on his lip. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he looked around the deserted room.

Instantly taking in the shabbiness of the poorly constructed hovel, he realized he was in an Alienage. There was no mistaking the dilapidated and warped wood or the underlying odor of years of accumulated filth and despair.

He scrambled to his feet, brushing off the dirt as he continued to peruse the room. His eye caught the Eluvian, now just an ordinary-looking mirror with a foggy surface. Touching it produced no movement or sound but it was disconcertingly warm under his fingertips. He withdrew his hand.

"As transportation goes it may be quick, but I don't altogether recommend it," he muttered, shaking his head as the last of the wooziness left him.

He had taken only one step into the adjoining room when he was thrown onto the floor by a blast. In the moment it took him to gather his scattered wits and stand up again, he knew was too late to stop whatever Flemeth had planned.

"Braska!" he growled, dashing out of the building and into chaos.

**~~~oOo~~~**

A curious silence followed the initial explosion, as if the very air had been sucked up into the heavens, leaving a vacuum in its wake. An utter cessation of sound that was both oppressive and unearthly.

It truly wasn't silent, Anya realized, merely the effect of the explosion's concussive wave on her eardrums. Just as the slowing down of all motion was not real but a distortion created by shock. As she watched the scene she felt as if she had somehow stepped out of synchronization with the world around her, an observer of a distant scene. It was, she thought slowly, as if the world had been plunged into a deep ocean and she was reminded of the time she and Nathaniel had jumped into the sea to save themselves.

"A n y a!"

She blinked, aware now of a steady drip of blood from her forehead and what felt like a thousand small stings. She shook her head and swiped at the blood, inadvertently dragging a small splinter of glass across her skin. She looked down dumbly to discover a sliver of the shattered window imbedded in her palm and reached to remove it.

Distortion warped her sight as she watched Fenris struggle to stand, his movements exaggerated and painfully slow. His markings were flaring … blue flickers of light that seemed to blur his skin and she felt the bite of panic begin to gnaw at her.

"A n y a!" an unrecognizable voice, muffled and distant, called to her. She felt as though her limbs and mind were disconnected from each other and she blinked, trying to bring the room into focus.

With a disorienting snap that left her feeling nauseous, sound and movement coalesced and went forward at a normal pace. Her stomach lurched and her head cried out in protest. And with that sudden clarity, she realized everyone in the room was yelling.

"Quiet!" she shouted, struggling to stand.

Voices fell silent as she surveyed her uncooperative brace, but it was a temporary silence. Orsino, carefully picking glass from his robes, cursed Meredith in surprisingly graphic terms. Meredith remarked bitterly that such an explosion could only be the work of mages.

To her surprise, Bran's voice cut through the vitriol, clipped and calm. "Margaret and Flynne, you are to restrain these two by any methods necessary. I have a city to protect and I won't have these two fomenting hate and hysteria when what we need is order and reason."

Without a word, both mages created glyphs around the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter that seemed to freeze them in place, effectively silencing them. The silence was broken by the sounds of a city in shock, a low thrum of noise that ebbed and flowed like a tide coming ashore.

"I am sure I heard a secondary blast," Fenris said into the sudden silence. "Mere seconds after the first. Farther away," he added quietly.

The door opened and Aveline entered, her face as pale as chalk, her eyes wide and blank. It was a look Anya was familiar with; she had seen it often in her capacity as a commander. Shock.

Anya's heart immediately went out to her as she remembered that Donnic had been in the chantry, as had several of Margaret's friends.

"Oh, Maker," Aveline murmured, reaching out to take Anya's hands. "Oh, Maker, I'm so sorry, Commander," the guard captain whispered. "And Varric. Oh, Maker," she repeated in a dazed manner.

Confused, Anya shook her head. "I – I don't know what …" she trailed off and tried again, comprehension filtering in through the shock. "Where was the explosion?" she finally asked around a mouth gone dry.

"My aide told me that they'd gone to search the … I … the first explosion was in the marketplace but there was a second explosion … another one … how could we have … I … the templar barracks at the Gallows is gone but it was … the explosion … I don't see how anyone even near the Gallows could have survived."

Her mind felt as fragmented as the shattered windows, as disjointed as Aveline's speech. From the strength of the concussive shockwave she had been convinced that the chantry had exploded. The market and the templar barracks wouldn't create martyrs but murderers. Meredith wouldn't need to declare the Right of Annulment, the citizens of Kirkwall would demand it.

And then her brain began a litany of denial and a low thin wail of fear that coursed through her, like the burble of water flowing in a rocky streambed. "No," it whispered as it gathered speed and volume inside her.

Maybe Nathaniel and Varric hadn't made it that far; they had probably gone by way of the Hanged Man. Yes, surely they were there, enjoying a pint before going on to the Gallows. A tightness in her chest grew until she was unable to expand her lungs. Breathing seemed impossible, her heart refused to beat in any sort of rhythm.

"Guard-Captain Aveline, put all your troops on the streets to calm the crowds. Send as many as you deem safe to the Gallows. Send someone to the chantry. I want Elthina here immediately," Bran instructed, moving to stand by Anya. "Send as many non-mage healers as you can spare to the market. Let the mages take care of the templars."

Crouching down beside her, his eyes not without sympathy, he spoke directly to her. "I need your assistance, Commander Caron. We are still only a hairsbreadth from a war between templars and mages."

"Howe. It's Commander Howe," she corrected around the stinging pain of unshed tears, while inside the whispered voice of denial continued relentlessly.

As one part of her denied Nathaniel's death, another accepted her duty with a preternatural calm. She allowed the viscount to help her to her feet. Her eyes traveled the room before resting on Margaret, who was as pale and shaky as Anya felt. Varric had been everyone's friend, but more so Margaret's. Fenris had an arm firmly around Margaret, his voice a soft ripple of comfort.

"I am at your command, Viscount Bran," Anya managed. "I would prefer to go directly to the Gallows. We'll need to stem any unrest, search for survivors, and find healers. We can't afford to keep Flynne and Margaret here to babysit these two," she said, indicating Meredith and Orsino, still held in some sort of magical stasis.

Numbness was seeping into her, deadening the pain and allowing her thoughts to clear. It came to her that she was two separate people at that moment. One was a woman who thought and felt and the other was one who spoke and acted. She heard her voice and felt a stranger to it.

"I recommend draining Orsino's mana, putting manacles on his wrists to prevent any use of blood magic, and throwing both of them in the keep's dungeons where the only damage they can do is to each other's egos," she said, sending a contemptuous look in their direction.

"Perhaps gagging them would be a good idea," Margaret added quietly. She offered Anya a watery smile. Anya gave a slight nod, unable to smile, unable to blink, afraid to allow her tears to form lest they never cease.

She hobbled in the direction of the door, trying to find the strength to open it and confront her worst fears. Flynne stepped in front of her and she felt his healing wave slide across her nerves, softening the pain in her hip and leg, soothing the rough burn of the cut on her forehead. He wound a bandage around her hand and cast another healing spell. She felt the torn flesh mending as he whispered his magic.

"Bloody oath," Carver hissed as he centered his greatsword on his back. A deep gash on his cheek was already scabbing over from the healing his sister was performing, his hair dark against a white bandage. "Was everything we did for nothing?"

It felt that way and the sense of loss, of hopelessness, flooded through her and turned her knees to water. She wanted to sink onto the floor and kick and scream her anger and grief.

"It doesn't matter what's happened, as long as we can prevent an outbreak of violence," she said, trying desperately to believe it, but inside she was dying one heartbeat at a time.

Outside the streets were seething with people streaming out of their homes and businesses, a low thrum of voices growing louder as Anya pushed through the growing crowds. The air was thick with dust and smoke and discontent.

Surveying the scene, she could only hope that the city guard quashed the voices calling for death to the mages before the sea of angry people swept across the bay to the Gallows and started a war they could not hope to win. She plucked her bow from her back and wished she had put more arrows in her quiver than the dozen or so she normally carried.

Two events occurred simultaneously that chased her thoughts away. Elthina, immaculate in her habit, her face serene, walked through the crowds, her hands blessing all those she passed. Behind her were Donnic and the others, their faces pale with shock.

Before Anya could move forward to implore Elthina to placate the crowd, a voice spoke to her, whispering in her ear. "Please tell me the Eluvian didn't cause this," Zevran said, seeming to materialize out of the dust-laden air.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Morrigan surveyed Anora's body with no surprise. "I suppose this is Leliana's work. Such a foolish notion, Mother, that you can control knowledge of the green lyrium. The more you try to suppress it the more the information will seep out. How many do you think you can kill?"

Flemeth materialized from the darkest corner of the room, her eyes glowing with humor. "As many as necessary, my child."

Anger tightened in Morrigan's chest and her eyes narrowed. "Arrogant to the bitter end. I cannot imagine why I have feared you for so many years."

"You fear anything you can't control, Morrigan, just as your dear mama does."

"'Tis not control I want, Mother, 'tis merely freedom. Away from you, away from this," she added with a sweeping gesture.

Gold eyes met gold eyes, the air charged. Morrigan felt the hair at her nape rise and she repressed the shiver that wanted to ripple through her. Any sign of weakness on her part would be ruthlessly exploited by her mother, she had no doubt.

"And let all past injustices be forgotten?" Flemeth taunted, shaking her head with mocking disappointment. "I truly thought you cleverer than that, my dear. You have both the right and the talent to seize whatever you choose yet you choose … nothing. I can only assume that's your father's weakness coming out."

Words. They were just another wave of words splashing over her and nothing to cause the hurt inside her. With a casual shrug, Morrigan turned away. "'Tis of no concern, Mother. Kill whomever you like for whatever reasons you like, but do not involve me."

A harsh shout of laughter burst from her mother. "Oh, you are delightfully more me than your father. Haven't you any desire at all to know who he was?"

Without turning around, Morrigan shook her head. The dark lace of her gown shifted as she walked away, a delicate swish of silk against her legs. There seemed nothing more to say.

"Events are in play that can't be stopped, Morrigan. Whatever you choose now will be permanent. Do you understand?"

"Enough, Mother! I have chosen."

"But so unwisely, my child, as ever you do. Such a waste of talent."

Morrigan paused, the prickle of unease dusting her neck again, like fingers from the past. Then she quietly shut the door and continued down the dark hall in search of Raoul.

And what she hoped had been the right choice.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Varric hadn't meant to moan. He knew it would hurt to open his eyes and he was right, but he certainly hadn't meant to moan. He blinked, staring up at the sky, which had become oddly red in hue. And he didn't understand the notion of being as deaf as stone, but perhaps that was the dwarf in him, because stone definitely made more noise than the soft, flat sound of a moan. He'd heard that. Hadn't he?

He meant to sit up and search for Bianca, who was, strangely enough, not on his back where she belonged. Shit, his face hurt. It felt as if he'd run face first into a gooseberry bush. He struggled to sit up and finally made it, only to feel a hand curled around his shoulder. Without hesitation he reached for the wrist attached to that hand and twisted, surprised to hear the weakest little grunt. For emphasis, he twisted until he felt a sharp point nestled between his shoulders.

"Unhand me at once, Serah Varric, before I am forced to violence."

Shit. Why was Cullen whispering to him? Where was Bianca? He blinked. And where was Nate? He blinked again, frustrated by the red haze in the air that made everything appear bloody. And why the hell did his face feel like raw meat must feel after it went through a meat grinder?

"You must remain calm," Cullen said slowly, in that maddening way people spoke to the old, the deaf, and the infirm. As he was none of those, he felt more than a little offended.

"I am calm, you tin-plated idiot!" Varric yelled in response, although he did note how oddly hollow his voice sounded, like he had a head cold.

Repulsed, he realized he was tasting the coppery tang of blood and took a swipe at his mouth, spitting in disgust.

"Mage! See to this man!" Cullen commanded, waving his sword at an older woman in the robes of a tower mage. "Healing magic only."

That was definitely odd. Hadn't he come to the Gallows with Nate on some clandestine intrigue of some sort? Varric felt a flicker of magic whisk across his cheek and then his nose.

He looked around the damp cloth now brushing along his face and stared up at Knight-Captain Cullen, whose face looked a lot like skimmed milk. "What's going on?"

Cullen frowned down at him as if he was some kind of blithering idiot, which he admitted to himself he certainly might be. He blinked and looked around again, fighting the odd urge to yawn and yawn. He finally gave in and when he did, his ears were suddenly assaulted by what he had thought was the murmur of wind through the Gallows but was actually about a thousand people talking at the top of their lungs.

He looked around now that the red haze was gone and felt his stomach try to change places with his boots. The Templar's Hall was a smoking ruin, charred and gaping open. He wouldn't have wanted to be in there when the bomb went off, he thought, wondering if there was a god somewhere he should thank.

Or there, he thought dazedly, looking across the teaming courtyard where the Mage's Tower listed badly, its windows obliterated. He heard the high thin wail of grief and the sound of stone hitting stone, of metal grinding, and farther away he heard a voice calling for help.

Varric was uncharacteristically silent as memory leaked into his battered brain. "Where's Nate?" he asked suddenly, panic looming inside.

"Be still, friend, until the healer is finished," Cullen replied with enough sympathy in his voice to chill Varric's blood.

He pushed the healer aside and stood on shaky legs, his eyes darting around the courtyard. Bianca was thirty feet away, atop a small pile of stone, looking battered but unbroken. He strode over to her and picked her up gently, caressing the smooth wood, now covered in a composite of ash, soot and pulverized stone.

His eyes continued moving but other than another large pile of stone, he saw only a few sheet-covered bodies and the detritus he'd expect to see from an explosion.

"Nate?" Varric whispered, throat gone dry and scratchy. "Nate!" he yelled, knowing there would be no answer.

"I have someone digging him out now but we hold no hope, my friend. The mage's healing spells will not penetrate stone."

"Where?" Varric demanded, moving on wobbly legs to his beloved Bianca.

He knew when he saw the leather scrap that whatever they found could not possibly have survived the blast. He should not have let Nathaniel enter the guardhouse. Damn it, he should have done it himself. Tears washed the soot from his eyes and he blinked them away as he knelt down beside a templar who was pulling away small chunks of the façade of a building.

"A little more help!" he cried out but knew everyone else was doing exactly what he was … hoping beyond hope that they would find survivors in amongst the rubble.

**~~~oOo~~~**

Elthina's expression was both serene and resolute. "Viscount Bran, I implore you to release Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino immediately. Their talents are sorely needed in this troubling time."

Bran glanced at Aveline, who was assigning a contingent of guards to the Alienage where fighting had broken out between the elves and a group of Low Towners who were using the chaos as an excuse to fuel old prejudices. She gave a minute shake of her head before turning her attention to Donnic. She sent him to patrol the eastern edge of the Alienage and the adjacent corner of Low Town, ordering Sebastian and Merrill to follow him.

"Keep the crowds from the docks and from here. We need to get a handle on this," she instructed. And again she shook her head, an almost imperceptible signal that neither Meredith nor Orsino should be allowed to leave the keep.

She was right. There was enough confusion and disorder at the moment. The last thing they needed was to add to it by letting those two rabid agitators out into the masses. "I regret I am unable to do so at this time, Your Eminence," he said quietly. "We must restore order first."

The templars guarding Elthina moved toward him, hands on the hilts of their swords and Bran's heart slammed into his ribs. "I must insist," he said firmly, willing his feet to hold their ground.

"Alas, I must also insist," Elthina said and her warm grey eyes became cold and implacable, sending a frisson of fear along his spine.

"I cannot allow that, as much as it pains me, Grand Cleric Elthina. Now, if you will excuse us, we are trying to minimize the –"

"But I won't excuse you. Such ill manners," she chided and with a nod to her escort of templars, she moved inexorably toward the keys hanging from the guard captain's waist.

Aveline drew her sword and backed away, her eyes swinging between Bran and the grand cleric. "Do what you must. You have my full support," he told her and she nodded, her sword coming to bear on the grand cleric's chest.

"How foolish of you, Bran dear," Elthina said in a voice gone treacle sweet. "You leave me no choice."

Pain exploded in his head and he fell to his knees, his stomach immediately rebelling and his eyes blurring. Aveline's low-pitched scream was a jarring note in a room that was otherwise quiet. He blinked, trying to clear away the encroaching darkness and then blinked again as he saw Aveline fall to the ground, her eyes wide and sightless, a look of shock still registering, even in death. It was the last thing he saw before the darkness overwhelmed him.

**~~~oOo~~~**

"Are you implying there is someone here in Kirkwall whose task it is to cause trouble?" Anya's fear ignited and she struggled to control it before it took control of her thought processes. "So, there is Flemeth, the Divine and a third person, at the least?"

"So Morrigan claims. It makes sense, yes? So much unrest here, so many plagues visited on the city over the past few years," Zevran replied with a shrug.

An echo of Anders's shout about the triumvirate blasted through the numbing fear. Had he been right? Or was it a coincidence that he had claimed to be controlled by an unnamed trio? Her voice was a paper-thin whisper when she voiced her thought. It seemed impossibly diabolical and far-fetched. But there was a ring of truth in it.

"Perhaps Anders was an easy conduit after he allowed Justice in. Maybe he did corrupt this spirit into that raging Vengeance demon. Or maybe not. With his death went the answer to that question, no?" the assassin continued, urging them forward.

To her dismay, the unrest seemed to be growing steadily worse as they pushed through crowds demanding retribution for the destruction of their city. A growing swell of anti-mage support grew with it. Anya's fervent prayers for the safety of Nathaniel and Varric were augmented with prayers for the safety of the citizens of Kirkwall. Any control they had striven for was unraveling as they made their way towards the docks for a boat across to the Gallows.

"So you're saying Flemeth and the Divine are in some crazy plot to harvest green lyrium? What has that got to do with Kirkwall?" Carver asked, his voice unnaturally loud in a sudden lull of noise.

They had paused in the back allies of Low Town to let a mob surge past them. Anya silently cursed their slow progress. Even with the men clearing a path, there was sporadic fighting that hampered their advancement and she was half hobbling, half hopping with odd little skips as she tried to force her hip and leg to a faster pace. And all the while she listened to the fantastical plot Zevran was explaining.

"Feels like we're just bloody puppets to some damned witch and her cronies," Carver interjected, a low rumble of anger and discontent reverberating in his voice.

Anya silently agreed. Beyond the despair of being played for fools, though, was the bleak cold that chilled her blood at the thought of Nathaniel. She had hoped to catch up with him by now, safe and making his way back to Viscount's Keep, but so far they had found only the flowing masses of the angry mobs.

"It was the perfect city to start a mage rebellion," Margaret said as she started forward again, urging them to follow. "The history, the number of blood mages and demon infestations and possessions."

"Or were those all part of Flemeth's plans?" Fenris asked. "She was uncanny and frightening when we encountered her on Sundermount."

Anya limped along, hopping and skipping to keep up with the others, her cane and brace discarded in the hope that she would be faster without them.

"Bloody oath! Hang on, Commander," Carver growled and scooped Anya up in his arms.

He set off in a bone-jarring jog, a vanguard for the others as he pushed his way through the crowds. He didn't stop until they were at a dock with several small boats bobbing in the water.

"Hey, lookit! Thems is mages!" someone shouted and the crowd inched forward.

Carver stood Anya on her feet and withdrew his greatsword in one fluid movement. Taking her bow from her back, she nocked an arrow and aimed it at the small man in front who'd spoken. She felt the others around her preparing for battle as the crowd pushed relentlessly towards them. She didn't want to hurt anyone but neither would she allow her people to be hurt.

"Stand back or you will die," she ordered, glaring at the man who was egging the crowd on. He shifted, his dark eyes flicking from Carver's glinting sword to her arrow to Fenris's sword. She felt, rather than saw, Flynne and Margaret move silently behind Carver. Zevran had already merged into the shadows.

"We kin takes 'em right 'nough!" the man boasted, drawing a knife and passing it from one hand to the other as he crouched. "C'mon boys, let's get us some mages!"

Quickly lowering her aim, she released her arrow and watched as it narrowly missed the agitator's foot. He danced back and she quickly pulled another arrow from her quiver, this one aimed at his gullet. "Stand down or die!" she shouted, drawing back on her bowstring.

His howl of dissent was cut short as Zevran appeared behind him, knife in hand. He grabbed the man's greasy brown hair and pulled, exposing a grimy neck. "I believe she means what she says, my good man."

The leader's voice shook slightly as he licked dry lips and muttered, "Aw, they ain't werf the trouble. Let's us go somewheres else."

"I implore you to return to your homes. It is too dangerous to be out on the streets!" Margaret called, stepping out and approaching the crowd. A hush settled over them and then a whisper became a roar as she was recognized.

"It's the bleedin' Champion!" someone in the back shouted. "She'll settle this right quick, she will!"

Within moments the horde dissipated like fog beneath the glare of the sun. The rush of adrenaline that had fueled Anya evaporated and she found herself shaking. "Maybe you need to return to the keep, Margaret, and help Bran control the mobs in Hightown."

The mage raised a golden brow before shaking her head. "No, the city guard should be able to handle it. There's no telling what we'll find at the Gallows and you may need my healing."

How had the crowd known there were mages in her group? Neither Margaret nor Flynne wore the customary robes of a mage. Margaret wore an ordinary, if richly embroidered, gown of blue silk and Flynne wore leather armor. Were there minions of Flemeth in the crowd to ensure unrest? Her mind felt as if it had tumbled into a whirlwind. Was anyone who they seemed?

Unable to speak around tightness in her chest, Anya instead knelt and began to untie a small boat. A sailor ran forward to help and then they were pushing away from the dock, heading for the Gallows.

Smoke rose in a ghostly haze, making it impossible to determine how much damage had been done. As they neared the Gallows docks, she heard the low keening cries and the sounds of metal ringing on stone. She shivered, terrified to discover what was hidden by the shroud of smoke.

Behind her came a rousing shout that sounded like a battle cry. She glanced over her shoulder to see an armada of ships moving away from the Lowtown docks and streaming towards the Gallows. She urged her boatman to greater speeds, knowing the futility of such urging. How had the crowds managed to secure so many boats?

A glint of sun striking metal shimmered like a signal flare and then another caught her eye, and another. Her breath caught in her throat and her vocal chords felt paralyzed. She grasped Zevran's hand and he looked at her and then followed her gaze. A templar's banner fluttered and caught the wind, unfurling boldly.

"My old friend Sten would say this is a good day to die. I, however, disagree," he stated.

His courage fired hers, burning away the wisps of fear that had tethered her tongue. "Hurry!" she yelled and then reached out for the sailor's spyglass. It took precious seconds for her to focus as they bobbed across the water.

"Meredith! What was Bran thinking?" she exclaimed, handing the spyglass to Zevran.

"Let us hope, my dear Anya, that Bran is still able to think, yes? Look who stands beside her."

She took the proffered tube and held it to her eye. "Elthina?" she gasped, disbelieving.

"Well that bloody figures. Didn't she always have a hand in everything?" Carver said with a low growl of disgust.

They were rapidly approaching the Gallows docks and Anya's brain was feverishly sorting through strategies. "Carver, as soon as we land, find a templar your size and take his armor by any means necessary. Fenris, you do the same. Stay close to Elthina and Meredith. If you get close enough and think you can do so, kill them."

And with that, their craft bumped into the dock and they climbed out, Carver lifting Anya out and then sprinting away to do as ordered. She moved forward through the hazy smoke and dust, calling out for Nathaniel as she went.

What she found was Varric, with a gaping wound that slashed across his nose and one cheek. He was covered in soot and blood and dust, clawing through a pile of debris. Beside him was a healer trying to staunch the flow of blood on his cheek and Cullen, who was directing mages and a surprising number of templars in relief efforts.

"Champion! Commander! Thank the Maker! We are in desperate need of help!" Cullen exclaimed, waving a gauntleted hand around the courtyard. "We're fortunate that most of the templars were out on training maneuvers when the bomb was detonated."

But Anya wasn't listening, she was down on her knees beside Varric, helping to remove the debris. "Nathaniel?" she asked, her voice hoarse and choked. She quickly took off her quiver and bow and then her steel reinforced leather gauntlets.

"I'm so sorry, Anya," Varric muttered brokenly and then he shoved at the mage's hands as the mage began a spell. "Stop, already! Just put a bandage on it and go away!"

Without a word, the mage did as she was told and then stepped back. Margaret knelt beside Anya, her voice calm and bracing when she spoke. "You need to explain to Cullen what's happening, Anya. And quickly. The others will be here soon."

"Zevran can do that, just help me! Please," she begged, her heart splintering.

"Anya, we need you focused on the task at hand. Zevran, tell her," Margaret pleaded.

"She's right, my dear. As trite as it sounds this is bigger than one man. Come, now, and command us," he said compellingly, his hand on her shoulder strong.

She shook his hand off and returned to her task, tears mixing with ash and dust to form muddy tracks. _Help me, help me, Maker._ A litany, a liturgical appeal to a creator she wasn't sure existed, but the thought of Nathaniel crushed beneath the rock was more than she could bear.

She redoubled her efforts, commanding others to help, unaware that in her haste that she'd ripped off several fingernails, oblivious to pain. And still her prayer droned on in her head. _Help me, help me, Maker_.

Her breath came in panting little sobs and she threw her head back and howled at the inequity of it, of the injustice of Nathaniel's death. And through the melody of her prayer was the ever-present counterpoint: _No, no, no, no_!

Zevran lifted her away and demanded that the healer do something about Anya's bloody hands. Anya blinked and looked down at them in surprise, unaware of any pain except that of her heart breaking. Zevran's arms came around her and held her tightly even as she struggled to resume her digging.

"Leave it! Meredith and her warriors have arrived!" he commanded and shook her until her head ached. "Look at Cullen, Anya. He's confused, he doesn't know who or what to believe." He gave her another shake. "You know that if Margaret casts any spell in Meredith's direction she will be struck down. Now focus, my dear. No matter how much it hurts to do otherwise, you must stop the bloodshed."

She kept forgetting to breathe and she sucked in a deep breath now, her heart racing, her mouth dry, her mind reeling. Finally she cleared her throat and spoke quickly, hoping the urgency in her voice compelled Cullen to help them.

"These bombs were not the work of the mages here, Cullen, nor the Mage Underground. There is a bigger plot at hand, one that reaches across Thedas, from Weisshaupt to Nevarra to Orlais and beyond. Meredith, Elthina and Orsino are all involved in it."

She fought an urge to laugh, hysteria so close to the surface she felt it oozing from her. Who could believe such a tale? She met his skeptical gaze and redoubled her efforts, reaching deep inside herself for the calm, resolute commander. She took a deep, steadying breath and recited everything she knew and by the end of it, Cullen's pallor had increased until he appeared as white as a chantry taper.

"But she's my commander and more importantly, Grand Cleric Elthina supersedes her. I cannot turn my back on an order issued by either one of them. I am a templar, above all other considerations, Commander, and I will do my duty."

Desperation fueled Anya's words. "Cullen, you were at the mage tower in Ferelden when it fell to the corruption of demons because the templars threatened the very existence of mages. If you fall into line with Meredith, you will have a catastrophe of greater proportions here. How can you possibly want that again?"

Behind her she could hear Meredith's metal sabatons striking the stone steps as she made her way up from the docks to the courtyard, as well as the resounding echo of marching soldiers.

Margaret spoke now, her voice surprisingly calm and almost sweet. "Cullen, you know the men here think the world of you and will follow your orders. They know you are fair and honorable. We all know Meredith has become more and more unstable. Please be guided by Anya. She is telling the truth."

As the troops moved closer, panic skittered and scrabbled through Anya, leaving her cold and shaky. She cast a silent appeal to Cullen and saw that he was processing what she said before he finally spoke. "I must at least hear what she has to say, so I can make no promises, Commander Anya. But I will not allow the Right of Annulment to be carried out if she orders it. I will not be a party to such a slaughter."

"Ah, Champion. I might have known you would be here. Come to see what your mage friends have done?" Meredith asked, voice dripping with contempt.

Anya stepped in front of Margaret, her eyes fastened on the deep blue eyes of Meredith. Madness stared back at her and she reached for her ceremonial sword, the snicker of metal sliding along her scabbard loud in the sudden silence. She allowed her gaze to flit from one templar to another as they gathered around their commander, spotting both Carver and Fenris immediately.

"You know, it occurs to me that neither you nor Orsino brought your weapons with you to the keep today. And your sword, a gift from the Divine, has a quantity of red lyrium in it. Red lyrium is highly volatile, is it not? I will assume that Orsino received a similar item." Anya remarked, flexing her sword as she waited for an answer.

"What has that to do with anything?" Meredith asked, her eyes narrowed in surprise.

"What indeed? We found Anders's bomb and disarmed it. Before he died, when he had no reason to lie, he confessed to that one bomb, but said there were other, more powerful people involved. Who could be more powerful than Elthina or you?"

"Are you mad?" the woman screamed, her face flushed with fury. "Cullen, take her into custody, and the Champion as well. I will tolerate no more interference from civilians! Once that's done, prepare the troops for the Right of Annulment. Grand Cleric Elthina agrees with me that it is the only way to prevent more bloodshed."

Anya's grip on her sword tightened and she took a step away from the group. "There will be no Right of Annulment on these mages. They are innocent and under my protection," Anya claimed, nodding to Carver and Fenris. The men stepped forward, one on either side of Elthina.

"I am sure the Grand Cleric will reconsider her decision," Anya said calmly, moving closer again. "Margaret, can you and Flynne assist with the healing?"

"Of course, Commander."

"Belay that! I won't have mages running loose! Seize them!" Meredith shrieked.

As several templars stepped forward, so did Cullen. His expression was apologetic but his voice reasonable and confident. "Let them go, Knight-Commander. Their services are sorely needed. They are not a threat unless we drive them to it."

Her eyes swung to her second in command and she let out a scream of fury, her sword point wavering as she retrained it on Cullen. Before she said anything, Orsino moved through the crowd, his hands still cuffed, his eyes awash in tears.

"Stop, Meredith, and consider what we have already lost this day. Do not add to it, I beg you."

Anya opened her mouth to speak but Elthina, her arms raised, shouted, "To the Void with you all! Martyr the mages!" As she spoke, she raised her arms and began to chant, her voice oddly mellifluous as she conjured up a fireball and sent it hurtling into the crowd of mages and templars.

Immediately the air filled with the smell of charred flesh and the screams of the dead and dying. Before she could cast again, Margaret and Flynne each aimed a spell at the grand cleric, sending her staggering back and then Carver's sword was slicing through the woman. She fell to the ground and writhed for several seconds before stilling, her eyes staring into the distance, unseeing and lifeless.

"You see? The mages must be purged!" Meredith screamed and raised her sword in the direction of Margaret. Anya stepped forward, bringing her own sword to bear. "It's over, Meredith. Whether you were part of the plot or were used, it is over and so is the killing. Stand down."

Orsino put out his manacled hands, an entreaty that the knight-commander ignored. "Please, Meredith. Let it end," he pleaded, his eyes flicking to the wounded and dead, his face a mask of anguish.

"No! No! Mages are responsible, don't you see! Blood magic used on Elthina! It's not to be borne!"

She swung her sword wildly and Anya jumped back, narrowly escaping the sweeping arc of it. She raised her sword again and moved close once more. "Enough! Cullen, disarm her and take her into custody!"

Once more, Meredith swung her sword, aiming for Anya's head, and then Cullen shouldered Anya out of the way and brought his own sword up, pushing the tip into Meredith's throat.

"And all for naught," Fenris decried, stepping over Meredith's body to clasp Margaret to him.

"We may not have stopped the war, but we stopped the carnage. Sometimes that is the best we can manage," Anya said, tears pooling.

Dropping once more to her knees, she scrambled over to the guardhouse rubble and bent to help Varric, who had not ceased his efforts during the encounter. "I knew you and Hawke would settle it," he said and gave her a bleak smile. "Damned fine work."

She shrugged off his words and worked on the pile of stone, tears splashing unheeded onto the debris, unaware of the others around her as they began the arduous tasks ahead of them.

The noise was faint, no more than a whisper of a murmur, but her heart leapt in her chest, buoyant as her blood acknowledged the presence of another Warden. Of _her_ Warden. Of her beloved Nathaniel, still buried in the debris, but alive.

She renewed her efforts, smiling through her tears.

**A/N:** _The epilogue is with my beta, the awesome Oleander's One, and I hope to post it within the next day or two. _  
><em>Oleander's One, you rock and are all things wonderful! <em>  
><em>Thank you to all of you who continue to read and follow and favorite this very long and winding story. <em>


	54. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**_Ten months later… _**

_Dear Daughter,_

_I am appalled that I must send this missive through your brother! Such disregard for my well-being scarcely surprises me. Ever were you your father's daughter and even in his death he maintains his hold upon your heart. Never fear, I am returning to my own family, who will treasure me as you were never able. _

_Your brother refuses to tell me where Cherise and the children are, unnatural son! Those are my grandchildren and no matter how distant I feel from my children, I remain devoted to those two. I shall continue to search for them, depend upon it._

_Not that you have shown the slightest interest in events here in Orlais but it is rumored that Nevarra stands on the border, ready to invade! Ever were they a nation to take advantage of a slight contretemps among the members of our royal family. No matter, we shall beat them back quite easily, I have no doubt._

_These are very troubling times, yet such glory awaits for those willing to rise to the occasion. I find myself championing de Chalons as he seeks to restore the order of the classes. Imagine being able to use a title again! Celene was much too liberal in her views and so I remarked on more than one occasion. _

_I will not write again until such time as you have apologized for your heartless feelings towards your own mother. I would wish you happy had I any reason to believe you wished me the same._

_Mother_

Without a qualm, Anya tore the letter in half and then in half again, continuing until there was nothing left of the letter except tiny pieces of creamy vellum. She tossed those into the air where they caught a fresh burst of wind and sailed into the sky. Like snowflakes, the vellum drifted slowly to the ground below.

Standing on the parapet in a shaft of golden sun, Anya stared out at the vast mountains in the distance, dismissing the letter and the emotions associated with it. With a sigh, she realized yet again how much she missed the view of the sea, missed seeing the enchanting blue water topped by maidenly white caps. She missed the scent of brine and fish and sun-warmed water on a freshening wind.

She also missed the fatherly guidance of Varel and the sassy camaraderie of Sigrun and the reassuring warmth of her Wardens. She missed having a clear mission and the command to carry out that mission.

But she could not be sorry that she'd left it all behind, at least for now. She closed her eyes, letting the soft wind tease her, seeking a peace within her to match the pastoral splendor of the summer day.

Another curl of wind pushed gently at her, as if seeking entrance, and she was reminded of that last fateful moment with Anders on the ledge above the sea, when something of unspeakable grace and beauty passed through her and left an indelible rush of love behind. She closed her eyes, savoring that emotion.

Inevitably, as happened each time that memory rose in her mind's eye, she wondered who had spoken to her and whose spirit had passed through her? Had it been Anders? Justice? Something entirely beyond her comprehension?

She would like to believe it was Anders, that he had found peace in that final moment before death. The desire to give Anders credit for such deep feeling was foolish, she knew. It attributed to him a greater love for mankind than he had shown, yet there had been that charming, loveable young mage residing in the same body as that dark and monstrous madman.

No, it was probably Justice who had bestowed such a gift. He had always been the gentler, nobler of the two. He had been the one who had stayed Anders's hand and saved her life. Was he in the Fade now? Restored to his former place and time? A whisper of a prayer drifted from her lips in the hope that he would know she was grateful.

And how much of Anders's insanity had been directed by that triumvirate he had claimed existed? Had they controlled him? Created Vengeance as a way to distort his reality? Or had Flemeth merely taken advantage of a broken soul?

In the silence, with her eyes closed and the warmth of the sun upon her, it was impossible to know. She suspected that Morrigan, still assisting Raoul in Orlais, would know the answers to such questions. The mage, however, was not forthcoming and Anya found herself reluctant to ask. Some things were better left to the imagination where hope could color the answers.

Slowly opening her eyes, she focused on a blur of motion on the narrow band of road that wound through the flower draped hills. A rider was approaching and she knew from the way the sun kissed golden hair that it was Zevran. A warm smile touched her lips and even though he was too far away to see the gesture, she raised her arm and waved at the king's emissary.

Fergus had been relentless in building up the defenses of Ferelden for whatever was coming, be it an Orlesian invasion fleet or the madness of the holy war now sweeping across Thedas. He was King Fergus now and newly married to a daughter of one of the nobles, a baby already on the way. Zevran claimed he was delighted to be surrogate uncle to whatever children the king's purely political marriage produced. Fergus was a good leader, much stronger and much less bitter than the former king.

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, remembering how swiftly Alistair had forsaken the throne. He had turned his face to Weisshaupt and his real love … being a full-time Warden once again. She had heard - through various old friends - that he was determined to bring some pride back to the Wardens and she wished him luck.

She had told him that they had thrown their lot in with those searching for the green lyrium and he was determined to change that. Perhaps, given his new maturity, he would succeed. She fervently hoped so. The Wardens had no business in politics or creatures like Flemeth.

More especially, they had no place in wars, she reflected, her smile turning down at the corners until it had disappeared completely. Just as Morrigan had predicted, Kirkwall had been the impetus for a mage uprising. Despite the fact that hundreds of mages, templars and citizens had been saved that fateful day, those mages that had been senselessly murdered had sparked a revolution.

Damn Elthina to the Void, she had played her role in the events so perfectly that nobody had suspected her of being anything other than the sainted woman of infinite patience. The cost of that day reverberated even now, echoing across a land that had been lost to reason. That Flemeth and her cohorts had won that day and the recent battles, Anya still wasn't quite sure what they hoped to gain. Or avenge, if Morrigan was to be believed.

The situation grew worse as the months went by. Varric had sent a coded message that only Nathaniel had been able to decipher, warning that the Seekers were out and about, seeking. Seeking what, Anya wondered again, rubbing briefly at the small scar on her forehead.

They were also trying to find the mage and templar leaders and quell the rebellion, hoping by doing so they could mend the schism, but it was too late. A large contingent of templars had, indeed, taken up arms in protection of the mages. The ranks of those fighting against the Chantry and its army continued to swell as the magnitude of the events spread throughout Thedas.

She'd heard from her brother that mages from all over were gathering at Andoral's Reach. Hardly surprising, she thought, considering its proximity to the Blasted Hills and all that alleged green lyrium. A part of her resented the role she'd unwittingly played, knowing that she had not been able to thwart any of Flemeth's plans. She had been used, a pawn in something so large she still could not comprehend the reasons nor the repercussions.

The rebellion was aided by the civil war in Orlais, which had erupted when the empress left the palace and went into hiding, just as Raoul had foretold. He remained loyally at the side of Celene even now and Anya worried constantly for his safety. The death toll was staggering as the poor rose up against the nobility and as chevalier fought brother chevalier. The Orlais she had grown up in was gone and she wasn't entirely sure that was a bad thing.

"There you are. I should have known. You've always preferred the ramparts to the great hall."

Without turning, she stretched out her hand, knowing it would be grasped and held tenderly. She tried to stem the tears that suddenly welled in her eyes to little purpose. If the tears fell she would blame the Orlesian blood that flowed in her veins. Even corrupted by the taint, it was no less than the truth. She was as much governed by her passions as her rationality.

"Carver's heard from Margaret. She says now that things have calmed down, she and Fenris will be here within the month. Viscount Bran isn't happy about their departure but he understands the necessity of her fighting from behind the scenes for now. Varric's decided to stay in Kirkwall. He promises to visit from time to time and he'll keep us up to date on things."

She nodded, unwilling to turn and share just how close to tears she was. Still grieving for so many lost that day, including Aveline, she struggled against the tide of grief that swelled in her. Poor Aveline and poor Donnic. He'd been devastated by her death. Margaret had written that he'd been promoted to guard captain and still wore a black armband in memory of his wife.

It was only luck that had saved Bran. The Viscount's Honor, an ornate and intricately carved badge of office, worn on a thick silverite chain around his neck, had blunted the killing blow, merely rendering him unconscious. Kirkwall was slowly rebuilding under his leadership.

Again the tears threatened and then, against her will, they began to spill silently down her cheeks. A warm flurry of wind, thick with the scent of newly mown hay and wildflowers, caught a lock of her hair and sent it playfully caressing her cheek, brushing gently at her tears. She pushed it behind her ear, finally turning to him, offering a tepid excuse for her emotions.

"I hope Raoul continues to stay safe. It is not a good time to be a Caron," she whispered, voice husky with emotion.

"Anya, your father did what he felt he had to for the sake of Orlais. He knew the risks when he switched his allegiance to de Chalons. And you can't be grieving for Rousel. His death should have happened much sooner than it did. Come, my love."

How could she explain that her tears were for him? How could she explain to Nathaniel the guilt she bore over his lost eye and the deep scars he now bore because she had thought she could stop Fate itself? So much of both of them had been left across the sea, sacrificed on the soil of Kirkwall. And for what?

Nathaniel unclasped her hand and settled his arm around her waist, pulling her close. "Stop it," he said quietly, his voice gruff with emotion. Without being told he knew the truth of her tears. "You are no more to blame for what happened to me than I am for what happened to you."

Her tears continued and a sob caught at her throat. "I should never have sent you to the Gallows," she said thickly.

The wind whipped up, sending more strands of her hair to dance with it. Caught by the beaming sunshine, the strands looked like liquid fire and she blinked, reminded of the horrible flames that had consumed the mages and templars that day at the Gallows.

She felt guilty for that, as well. She should have known; she should have been prepared. No matter how often the others told her differently, she clung to that belief that had she acted faster, realized sooner, Nathaniel might not have nightmares now of being trapped alone in the dark, unable to breathe.

Children's laughter drifted on the wind and she closed her eyes, imagining their play_. To be young again. To be carefree and playing under a bright sun with no restraint and no guilt._ She shivered, despite the warmth, and finally looked up at her husband.

His nose was now slightly crooked, though hardly noticeable when one's attention was drawn immediately to the black silk patch he wore to hide his empty, scarred eye socket. Only she and Flynne were allowed to see him without the patch and it had taken some negotiating before he'd given her permission. She could not fault him his vanity as she remembered how difficult it had been for her to bare her scars to him.

Tenderly, she raised her fingers and traced the ridge of a scar that flowed from beneath his eye patch to pool at an almost circular scar just below his ear, along his jaw. He let out a low murmur of approval.

"If you plan on exploring every flaw, madam wife, I suggest we move this to a more secluded spot," he whispered raggedly and a smile curved her lips.

"Tsk, tsk, Naughty Nate. I'm not sure my sister-in-law can tolerate such scandalous behavior."

"More incentive, surely?"

Laughter bubbled up and spilled out, a joyful sound that fluttered in the breeze like butterfly wings. Her guilt and sorrow eased, withdrawing from the field for the moment, and she linked hands with him.

Sooner or later they would have to join the conflict. Their small castle and its attendant village in the rolling green foothills of the Frostbacks would not hide them forever. Especially as more and more friends and family joined them. People were sure to remark on it.

But for now, for these treasured moments of time, she would live and love and rejoice in the man who stood beside her.

~~FIN~~

**A/N: **_At long last the saga ends. __I couldn't have managed this story without help from my first beta, Lisakodysam, who helped shaped the early chapters, and most especially my current beta, Oleander's One, who courageously stepped in midway through the story to take over. Thank you so much, my dearest friend. Your wit and wisdom are unfailingly bright spots in my day.  
><em>_Thank you, thank you to all of you who have lurked, who have reviewed, who have sent me PMs. Your encouragement and support are such wonderful gifts and inspiration. __  
><em>


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